


And All The Devils Are Here

by Edhla



Series: After the Fall [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 72,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5031211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edhla/pseuds/Edhla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A serial killer with an obsession with Shakespeare is loose in London. When suspicion falls on Lestrade's teenage son, Sherlock's loyalties are severely tested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brief Candle

**Author's Note:**

> This is the ninth instalment of a series that begins with After the Fall, available on my profile. 
> 
> Feel free to proceed with this one, but do be aware that this is a series 3 AU, set nearly two years after Sherlock's return, and a LOT has happened in the previous eight fics. 
> 
> This is really AU, is what I'm saying. :)

The dead girl lay face-down in the summer foliage, her purple dress unfurled like the petals on a violet. Once they turned her over, John thought grimly, they'd probably find very little left of her face. Severndroog Castle loomed above, and preliminary analysis of the scene suggested she'd fallen from one of its windows.

"Looks like she's been here a while... probably fell sometime yesterday evening, or early this morning. And I can tell you who she is," Lestrade said dolefully.

Sherlock, down on his haunches beside the body, looked up at him. "Oh, yes?"

"Yeah. Celeste Biondi," he said. "Fifteen or sixteen years old. She's... she was Matthew's... girl... person, I suppose." He shook his head.

"His 'girl-person'?" John blinked. In the five or ten seconds he'd devoted to analysing Matthew Lestrade, he'd come to the unformed assumption that in terms of romantic inclinations, he was "like Sherlock". Greg had complained on a few occasions that Hayley's love-life was aging him prematurely, but he'd not, so far as John knew, ever said a word about Matthew's.

"Well, she came around at the house a lot, but I don't think he was planning on marrying her. Shit. Poor kid – what a way to go." Lestrade pointed vaguely at her. "And then there's that," he went on.

 _That_ was the grubby scrap of paper on the girl's back, and a brief note scrawled on it with a wide-nibbed pen and black ink:

_She should have died hereafter_

It was viciously stabbed through by a dull, metallic object, and smeared with rust-coloured stains. John looked it over carefully. "That's one hell of a nail," he mused. "And it's driven right into the flesh. Jesus, he'd have had to have used a hammer or something to do it..." He hovered over the wound, making an effort not to touch it.

"Before death?" Lestrade asked him.

"Doubt it." John tilted his head to see it better. "A nail like that would plug the wound a bit, but if she was alive when he did it, I think it'd bleed more than this. What's the note mean?" He looked across at Sherlock, confidently awaiting an answer.

"Well," Sherlock said. "It's – "

"It's a quote from Macbeth," another voice broke in.

Sherlock shot to his feet and whirled around to see Sally Donovan standing nearby, both hands shoved in her jeans pockets. He gave her an annoyed, quizzical look.

"Well, you're not the only person who knows things, Genius," she said, grinning. "And you're also not the only person who has a Google app on your phone."

Donovan's tone had drifted to the _slightly_ more pleasant toward Sherlock Holmes in the nineteen months since his return to the land of the living, though she'd apparently swapped _Freak_ for a disdainful _Genius._ She seemed in a better mood than usual this afternoon, despite the corpse in front of her; it was her first shift since arriving back from her three-week honeymoon. Strictly speaking, Sally Donovan was now Sally Mukherjee, but Lestrade had taken one look at her married surname and asked if he could use her maiden name at work. She'd readily agreed. Lestrade had bellowed "Donovan" at her so much over the past nine years that neither of them could imagine him addressing her as anything else.

"So what is this place, anyway?" John asked, by way of distracting Sherlock and Donovan from getting into a battle of egos. "Didn't expect a castle to be out here."

"Severndroog Castle," Sherlock announced. "Privately built in 1784. It was boarded up in 1988 and became derelict, but a restoration project began last year." He glanced up. "And there are no windows open up there," he added.

"There's a couple broken, though," Lestrade replied, looking up as well. He pointed. "Right in the middle of restorations, too. God, I hate vandals..." He glanced at Sherlock, who was looking disdainfully at him. "What?"

"She couldn't possibly have squeezed herself out of the gap in those broken windows," Sherlock said. "Even if someone were to force her, she'd be covered head to toe in lacerations and broken glass. No. She fell from elsewhere."

"You mean, she fell from the roof," John said dully.

"Yes, from the battlements."

"Do you think she was pushed?"

Sherlock glanced down at the dead girl again. "No," he said. "The angle, projection and positioning of the body are all wrong for someone who was pushed. But there are plenty of ways to compel a person to step off a roof without _pushing_ them."

For a few seconds, there was little sound but the purring breeze in the trees above and the crunch of gravel under boots as Lestrade's team took stock of their newest case.

"What are you thinking, Sherlock?" Lestrade finally asked him.

Sherlock removed his gloves with a snap. "Well, provided you're right about her identity, we've been given a helpful shortcut," he said. "As for the perpetrator, I'd say you're looking for an attractive male between the ages of fifteen and thirty. Clean-cut, middle or upper working class, educated, articulate, and pleasant-smelling, so he was probably a non-smoker."

"Okay, I know my lines. What are you basing all that on?" Lestrade asked him wearily.

But for once, Sherlock seemed reluctant to elaborate and was already walking away, toward one of the squad cars. "You'll know when you see the forensic report," he said, without looking back. "Though I'm surprised you haven't observed it."

* * *

"So are you going to tell me what Greg and I should have seen?" John asked as they arrived at the Watson residence nearly an hour later. The car was in the driveway but, John noted gratefully as he fished the keys out of his pocket, Molly had remembered to lock the front door. So far, the case against Ross Harding hadn't compelled them to leave London, but the word _bitch_ had been scratched into their car door ten days before while it had been in the hospital carpark.

"Not seen," Sherlock corrected him as they came into the hall. "Observed."

"Observed _what?"_

"You'll know when the report comes in."

"Fine, we'll do it your way again," John muttered. They'd reached the kitchen by this time, and he leaned over to fill the kettle. "You'll stay for tea, then?"

John had posed it like a question, but it was more of an order. Sherlock had already agreed, since Mrs. Hudson's death three months before, to eat dinner with John and Molly at least twice a week. Sherlock grunted in assent; leaving him to make coffee, John went upstairs.

He found Charlie in her crib, babbling away to Freddie, her toy mouse. Molly was fast asleep on the bed, still in her blouse, skirt and stockings. An elaborate get-up, for her. Earlier that day, she'd testified at a panel hearing on the case against Professor Ross Harding, something that had been looming over her for the past two weeks.

The evening was warm and she was sprawled out on the coverlet, her skirt crumpled and one arm brought up to her forehead, like a child's. He sat down on the mattress and gently nudged her awake. "Hey, we're home," he said. "Everything okay?"

"Yes... oh, yes," she said blearily, struggling to sit up. She put her hands against her forehead for a second. "Just... tired."

"Sorry to wake you, but you'll never sleep tonight. How'd it all go today?"

"Um, okay," she said, tweaking her stockings uncomfortably. "I mean, Professor Harding wasn't there, so that was all right. And the panel people were nice... but they asked me a lot of things I couldn't answer. They kept getting sneaky and asking me the same question five different ways to see if I'd change my story. At least, I think that's what they were doing."

John looked unimpressed. "Anyone would think _you_ were the one under investigation."

"I am, in a way. Mycroft said. He said if they think I'm just making this up..."

"You didn't _make up_ the fact that the authorities found Berrimer's specimen vaults full of organs they have no paper-trail for," John reminded her.

"No, I suppose not." She brushed her heavy cascade of hair away from her face and rubbed her eyes blearily. "Oh, Mel called this afternoon, too," she said, in more upbeat tones. "She wants me to be one of her bridesmaids. She's having Hayley as her maid of honour, but Greg's a bit upset at the idea of her organising a hen night, so she wants me to do it."

"So they've finally set a date?"

"New Year's Eve, like we all thought." She looked doubtful, but John smothered a smile.

"And did you tell her that you'll be the size of a house by then?" he asked. "The last thing you'll want to do is organise pole-dancing classes."

"Oh, I couldn't tell her yet," Molly protested. "And I thought you'd want to tell Sherlock first."

They'd told Charlie first, though, more than a month before, when John had taped a handwritten note to her crib:

_EVICTION NOTICE_

_Dear Miss Watson,_

_Due to the arrival of a new tenant, you are hereby ordered to vacate this crib by no later than February 25th._

_Love,_

_Mummy and Daddy,_

_Watson Family Planning Department._

By this time Charlie was loudly voicing her protests at being confined to said crib. John took her out and changed her while Molly went to the bathroom to splash her face; they reached the living room together, where John set Charlie on her chubby bare feet in the doorway. She tottered toward Sherlock for a few unsteady steps, then lost her balance and pitched forward, planting her palms onto the floor to steady herself. John set her upright again, and this time she made it to the sofa where Sherlock sat, fiddling with his phone and apparently not paying her the slightest bit of attention.

"She always walks to you," John remarked. "Never does it to me."

"I _make_ her walk," Sherlock said loftily. "You two get up and cater to her every whim whenever she points at something."

"I won't point out the fifty million flaws in what you just said." John glanced at Molly, then cleared his throat and sat down in the armchair. "Um, Sherlock," he said in lower tones. "We've got some news, actually."

"Yes, Molly's pregnant," Sherlock said distractedly. He was still concentrating on his phone. "That's been obvious for nearly two months. The pre-natal vitamins that have suddenly appeared at eye-level in the pantry and the ultrasound scans very badly hidden under Molly's handbag on the kitchen counter were particular giveaways. The only real mystery is why you didn't decide to blurt out the news at Charlie's birthday party."

This had been nearly three weeks before. Sherlock had reluctantly attended, though he'd made sure to tell everyone that first-birthday parties were ridiculous, self-congratulatory indulgences. Boring.

Another significant glance passed between the Watsons. "Well," Molly said. "Yes, it was pretty difficult, keeping the news when we had a house full of people. But we sort of thought you should know first, before we told Harry and Greg and Mel and... well, everyone."

"You've not seen them?" John ventured. "The scans, I mean."

"Mmmmm... not interested."

John got up and retrieved the envelope. He took one out and handed it to Sherlock.

"No. Really not interested."

"You should probably look, Sherlock," Molly said, nodding.

Sherlock huffed, but he lifted the scan and examined it in the evening light filtering in from the kitchen windows. And then, for perhaps the first time in his life, he nearly choked on his own observation. "What the hell is that?!" he demanded.

"That's exactly what I said," John put in over Molly's fit of giggling, taking it back and sliding it into the envelope again. "That's twins, due in the last week of February... don't look at me like that. They run on the mother's side... okay, fine, we'll talk about the case now." He slapped the scan down on the kitchen counter and threw himself wearily onto the sofa. "So," he said, glancing at Charlie who was standing by Sherlock's chair, clinging to it to support her wobbly legs. "A sixteen-year-old girl is found dead after falling from the turret of a castle undergoing restoration. And she had a quote from Shakespeare on her back. Either of you got a theory? Because I'm all out."

Sherlock stared blankly into space for a few seconds, then shook his head as if he'd just woken up. "Uh, the uh, quote literally nailed into her is suggestive, as is the fact that Lestrade knew her," he said quickly.

"Suggestive of what?" Molly asked.

"Of the nine million people in London, the murder victim just happens to be Matthew Lestrade's girlfriend?"

"'Girl-person'," John reminded him. "From the sounds of things, it's a different thing to having a girlfriend. And even one in nine million is still a chance, right? Statistically?"

"You are a rubbish statistician." Sherlock looked over at Molly again. "You're actually serious, though? Twins?"

* * *

"Thanks for being so stand-up about this one, Jake," Lestrade mumbled once they'd pulled up in the driveway, in-gear, engine idling. "I called ahead and told Mel what's happened. She's on hand, but I've got no idea how he's going to react. You know he can be a bit..." He floundered for a second. "Well, you know. A bit odd."

"It's fine, sir."

"Don't give him any more details than I do, okay? He doesn't need to know it was gruesome."

Dyer gave his superior officer a brief, almost timid glance. On the job, disagreeing with the boss was so welcome it was almost a requirement for being on Lestrade's team. But this was different. The dead kid had been his son's friend. "Sir," he hesitated. "Can I just say something?"

"You're not on duty. Which means you don't have to call me sir, either."

"So if someone came and told me that Hayley had been murdered..." He looked away and swallowed. "I'd ask how it happened. They always do, don't they? The families. First thing, right off the bat, before it's even sunk in."

Lestrade twisted the engine off and pulled the keys out of the ignition. "Yeah, point," he conceded wearily. "But look, just... if anyone needs to tell him the details, I'll do it."

They found Matthew sitting at the dining-room table. He was sketching an oriental dragon motif onto A3 paper; the pencil was clutched awkwardly in his oversized, sunburned hand, but the lines flowing from it were delicate and laid with precision. He laid down his work and looked up as they entered, which didn't always happen. "Hi," he said.

"Hi, um." Lestrade stopped in the archway that connected the kitchen and the dining room. Behind him, he could hear Melissa pottering around, boiling the kettle and keeping a close eye on things. "Matty," he said, pulling up a chair beside his son and sitting down. Jake remained standing in the archway, as if guarding the exit. "There's something we need to tell you."

He mentally flinched. Telegraphing bad news by using phrases like "there's something we need to tell you" or "we have bad news" went against his training and thirty years of experience as the bearer of bad news. There was never a nice way to say it, and there was no point in drawing it out.

Matthew was looking earnestly at him, waiting for the axe to fall.

"Your friend, Celeste," he said at last. "I'm sorry, Matty. She's been killed."

Something sparked up and then burned out in Matthew's eyes, as if two wires had touched. "What?" he blurted out. "Oh, _shit,_ when? How?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted when his phone suddenly rang.

"For _God's sake,"_ he growled, fishing it out of his jacket pocket. Donovan. He turned and threw the phone to Jake, who caught it with all the skill of a field cricketer. "Answer that. Take a message."

Jake wandered out into the kitchen, and Lestrade turned back to Matthew. In the space of only a few seconds, his face had gone grey. "What happened to her?" he croaked.

"We're not sure yet. But it looks like she fell from Severndroog Castle sometime last night."

Matthew's gaze bounced wildly off the carpet, the tablecloth, the windows behind his father. Lestrade closed his fingers around his wrist. "Matthew," he said. "I need you to look at me, mate."

Matthew screwed his eyes shut for a few seconds, then opened them again and looked up. He withdrew his hand and scrubbed it over his face.

"I'm sorry," Lestrade said. "I know – "

"But... no, Dad." Matthew shook his head. "I left her there last night. And she was fine then -"

"You _what?"_ Lestrade clutched his wrist again. "Wait a second. You were there with Celeste at the castle last night?"

"Yeah." Matthew shrank back against the back of his chair. "We –"

"Sir - "

"Jake, I am _in the middle of something,"_ Lestrade snarled over his shoulder. "It can bloody wait!"

"It really can't, sir."

Lestrade stopped. Jake had just called him _sir,_ again, twice. Squeezing Matthew's shoulder, he got up and followed Jake out into the hall. "Make it quick!"

"Sir," Jake said wretchedly. "That was Donovan. The preliminary forensics are in."

"And?"

"It was the fall that killed her. And, um. They found signs of recent sexual activity."


	2. The Taste of Fears

Lestrade snatched the phone receiver out of Jake's hand and pressed redial, waiting a few anxious seconds before the line reconnected. "Donovan?" he barked.

"Yeah." The dull roar in the background of Donovan's call betrayed that she was probably in a moving car, and Lestrade hoped for a moment that she wasn't actually the one driving. He'd told her a thousand times…

"'You free to talk?"

"Jones is driving. The Biondis have gone to the station in their own car."

Lestrade knew that once at the station, the officers there would ask the Biondis to sign a release for Celeste's autopsy, to be undertaken as soon as possible. Probably that night. He felt sick.

"Where are you headed now?" he made himself ask, just as if this were one of his usual cases.

"Vita Biondi gave us a list of some school friends of Celeste's, so we're headed out to round them up for interviewing now."

"Who laid out the preliminary forensics report?"

"Anderson, sir."

Lestrade hissed in dismay. It was something of a Yard joke that Philip Anderson was about as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike, and perhaps he was, at most things. But as for forensics, he was top class and rarely made mistakes.

"Donovan," he said, "work fast. The second this hits Dawson's desk, he's going to give this case to another DI and throw most of my guys off the case. You… you know why, don't you?"

"Yes, sir." Donovan paused. "Is your boy okay?"

In their ten-year working relationship, Lestrade couldn't remember Donovan ever asking about the welfare of "his boy." Nor had she ever asked about "his girl", "the wife", "the girlfriend" or anyone else in his life. And in fairness, it had only been just before she took leave to get married that he'd even found out the bloke's _name -_ Rahul. It wasn't that kind of a working relationship.

"Not great," he said wretchedly. "I need to call his mother... Donovan, call Sherlock Holmes and get him to come with you when you do your interviewing."

"Sir –"

"Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it," he cut her off. "He sees things we don't. Call him. Do it quickly."

He remembered how Sherlock had walked away from him at the crime scene and suddenly, the bottom dropped out of his stomach. Normally, the obnoxious prat would still be around, either taking up unofficial residence in his work office or standing right there in the kitchen, regaling anyone who'd listen with his wealth of knowledge…

But he'd known about… what Anderson had found. And he'd bloody walked away from it.

"I'll call him now. Just leave this with us, Boss," Donovan said, in tones that were very gentle for her. "We'll get this sorted out."

With a vague grunt of dismissal, Lestrade hung up.

Perhaps because time hadn't had a chance to jade him, Jake was an absolute godsend with shocked and distressed witnesses, and with a victim's family members. Melissa had by this time moved in on the scene as well. Glancing back into the dining room, Lestrade saw them both huddling over Matthew in a way that was loving and supportive and probably correct according to some textbook somewhere, and which was clearly annoying the shit out of the poor kid.

His thumb hovered over the phone keypad. Instinct was telling him exactly as he'd told Donovan: Call Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately, his strong common sense was telling him to call Julie.

Matthew had gone back to Julie's house the night before, straight from the crime scene. If further investigation of Celeste's death involved a narrow margin of time, she might be her son's only alibi. And in any case, she'd be able to provide valuable information on what sort of state he'd been in when he'd arrived home.

As the line purred, Lestrade remembered with annoyance the incident of the wedding invitations. The week before, Hayley had shown him her mother's wedding invitations, inviting the recipient to the wedding of Mark Anthony Farrow (worthy of a snigger) and Julie Caroline Lestrade. He'd never before considered whether Julie still used his surname, and ordinarily, he'd told himself without conviction, he wouldn't mind about that. But the fact that she'd put it on an invitation to her second marriage had downright made his teeth itch.

"Hi," she said efficiently. Not thrilled to hear from him, but past calls had generally opened with, "What?"

"It's me," he said. "We've got to talk about Matthew, now."

* * *

Caitlin Trent tucked her crossed ankles behind the slats of the chair she was sitting on and scrubbed at her puffy, damp eyes with the heel of her hand. Her brother Edward, nearly two years younger, stood in the doorway. He'd folded his arms awkwardly over his chest and was looking around, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do next.

Sherlock hadn't had far to travel when Donovan's call had come through. The Trents lived only four streets away from the Watsons, though he'd left John at home wrangling with his strong-willed daughter and brushing up his knowledge on the Scottish Play. Now perched owl-like in an armchair in the Trent's living room, he bundled his coat around himself and leaned back, gaze flitting back and forth as he took in everything around him at record speed.

Ordinary teenagers, he'd noted with a little disappointment. Caitlin was a bottle-blonde, with brown eyes set wide apart in her face and a snub nose. Edward was round-faced, with a modest layer of puppy fat he hadn't yet shed and, Sherlock quickly decided, he probably sprouted obnoxiously cherubic dimples when he smiled. The children's stepfather, a dull, tired-looking financial advisor who'd introduced himself as Robert, sat on the sofa next to DS Lauren Jones. Seeing Edward's awkwardness, he rose and gestured him to the seat he'd vacated. Edward shook his head slightly.

"I know you," Sherlock said suddenly, addressing Caitlin.

She blinked twice and sniffled, tweaking her tissue between her fingers. "I don't remember," she said bluntly. "Who are you?"

It was a moment before Sherlock himself knew where he'd seen Caitlin Trent before. He and John had been leaving the Watson residence just a month or two ago when she'd blundered out from behind the neighbour's front hedge. John, backing the car onto the road at the time, had nearly hit her. He'd slammed the brakes on and got out of the car, giving her a lengthy, furious piece of his mind, while she stared at him like the proverbial deer who had narrowly avoided becoming roadkill. All biting, dress-sergeant stuff, until he'd got back into the driver's seat. Sherlock remembered his hands shaking as he put the key into the ignition.

"Never mind," he said dismissively. "Go ahead, Sergeant Donovan."

"Thanks so much for your permission," Donovan muttered. She glanced down at the brief she held, then gave her brightest smile to Edward, still lingering in the doorway. "Edward," she said. "Do you want to sit there next to Lauren while we talk?"

 _Lauren_ , Sherlock noted as he watched Edward reluctantly cross the room and sit down next to her. Nobody ever called DS Jones _Lauren_. Even Donovan called her by her surname. The Trent kids were getting the treatment usually reserved for the under-ten crowd. Jones even patted the sofa cushion beside her before Edward finally sat.

"So," Donovan said after clearing her throat. "We're really sorry about Celeste. And we understand that you're upset about it. But we do need to ask you some questions, before your memories get a bit muddled. Did either of you see her last night?"

Caitlin shook her head, without pausing to think about it, and her brother murmured "no" into his hand.

"And she was a friend of yours, Caitlin?" Donovan sounded so uncharacteristically soft that Sherlock coughed into his hand. "But she was in the form below you, wasn't she?"

"Yeah," Caitlin said. "We didn't really hang around each other at lunch or anything. We were in the Dramatic Society together."

Donovan glanced at Jones for a second. "Okay. The Dramatic Society – so you put on plays?"

Caitlin nodded. Sherlock, listening in with a great deal of irritation, mentally gave her points for not rolling her eyes.

"And you're currently midway through a production of Macbeth – don't ask me how I knew that," he sniped before Caitlin could express more than a second of surprise. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Donovan turn her head toward him, and knew what it meant. The exasperatingly dim woman was trying to signal to him not to reveal crime scene details. "So which part did Celeste play, then?" he went on.

Caitlin frowned and shook her head. "She didn't play anyone," she said. "She was in the wardrobe department. Made costumes, is what I mean."

"And you?"

"Fleance… it's a character. A boy's part," she admitted with a shrug. "But it doesn't really matter, 'cause we've far more girls in the group than boys."

"But there were boys in the cast, too?" Jones asked carefully.

Caitlin wiped her nose. "Oh, um, yeah, a couple," she muttered. "Matthew Lestrade was playing Macbeth."

"I'm in it," Edward suddenly spoke up. "I play Banquo. I – um. Well, I s'pose I don't anymore. But I'd have done a good job of it." He dropped his chin, muttering into his chest.

"Oh, will you stop being so selfish!" Caitlin suddenly sprang out of her chair. "Who cares about the play being cancelled? Some horrible person murdered Celeste! And you're a terrible actor, anyway!"

"Caitlin," Robert tried, in weak tones that suggested that "Caitlin" was probably the only admonishment she ever received.

"Did they?" Sherlock asked calmly from his chair.

Caitlin turned to him, cheeks flushed. "Did they what?"

" _Did_ some horrible person murder Celeste?" Sherlock glanced at Donovan, then clasped his fingers together and laid them in his lap in a sort of pre-emptive self-satisfaction. "Because I don't recall any of us ever telling you that Celeste was murdered."

Her mouth dropped open. "Well, of _course_ she was murdered! What are you all, idiots or something? Why would all these police officers be here if it was just, like, an accident?"

"Caitlin," Robert tried again. "You're getting very worked up – "

"Of course I'm worked up!" she shrieked, with such force that she took a great gasping breath before the rest of it would come out. "Just all of you leave me alone!"

Tear-choked, Caitlin blundered out into the hall. Robert went to go after her, but after a second, seemed to think better of it. They listened to her heavy, clumsy tread on the stairs and then a whump that suggested she'd either slammed a door or pitched something heavy at the wall.

"I'm sorry," Robert said, sitting back down and sighing heavily. "She can be strong-willed."

Sherlock's upper lip twitched for a second. No, that was _never_ going to do. Donovan wouldn't tolerate Caitlin's "strong-willed" attitude for much longer, even if the girl did have a good excuse for histrionics.

Donovan glanced again at Jones, and then down at her notes; Sherlock silently noted how tightly she held her mouth. "It's okay," she said.

"Robert," Sherlock asked, "what hand does Caitlin write with? No, I don't want _you_ to answer." He held up his palm before Edward could helpfully chime in.

Robert shrugged his thin, stooped shoulders. "Her right, I suppose. Don't most people?"

"Yes, you'll note that I didn't ask what hand _most_ people write with – yes, fine, what's the answer?" Sherlock turned to Edward, who by this time was practically leaping out of his seat in anticipation at being called upon.

"Her left," he said promptly, as if racking up points in a quiz show.

"That does explain quite a lot. And how long did you say you and your wife have been married, Mr. Trent?" Sherlock asked politely.

"Seven years next month. Why?"

"Sherlock, is this going somewhere?" Donovan raised one eyebrow.

Sherlock's lower jaw unhinged itself for a few seconds before he realised and shut it again.

"No," he finally said, huffing and turning his head away from her in contempt. "No, you're quite right. I often ask witnesses pointless questions for no reason. I'll shut up now."

Donovan turned back to the notes on her lap, though she didn't seem to be actually reading them. For a few seconds an extremely awkward silence filled the room, and they could all hear Caitlin still slamming things around upstairs.

"Go on, then," Donovan finally muttered.

"No, you go ahead, Sergeant."

"Really, just – "

"You're asking the questions." Sherlock's tones were icily polite. "Continue."

"Sherlock, will you – "

"My questions don't lead anywhere anyhow, apparently."

"Just stop acting like a bloody toddler, Sherlock, this is a serious case!"

"Both of you stop it, now," Jones said suddenly. "You do know who we're supposed to report disputes to? I don't think he's in the mood for any of this. Not today."

At this, even Sherlock had a rare flash of regret. Although not strictly speaking a Yard employee, he was now an independent contractor. Any disputes he had with Donovan during the course of an interview had to be reported to the managing DI and that, for the next few hours at least, was still Greg Lestrade. Lestrade hated paperwork at the best of times, and there was little chance that Jones would take pity on all of them and not report a petty squabble to him once she'd warned both parties to shut it. She was even more by-the-book than Donovan, if such a thing were possible.

"Edward," Jones said calmly, turning to him. "We need you to give us a list of people from the Dramatic Society. Names and phone numbers and addresses, if you have them, please."

* * *

 _For God's sake,_ Lestrade pleaded silently, listening to Julie's quiet breathing on the other end of the line. _We always knew. We always knew right from when he was born that he was different. But if_ _you start thinking_ _he'd ever –_

"Greg," Julie said. "Do you remember, when we were in fifth form, someone burned down the bike shed at school?"

He cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"And someone called up the local force about it. They said they saw you and Rich Ansell leaving the scene just as it started to go up in flames."

"They came out to the house to interview me." _And I just about starting crying like a little girl, thinking I was going to prison._

"And your dad was mad as hell about it. He told them to get off his property, and come back when they had a warrant, didn't he? Because you told him that you weren't involved, and he believed you. And he never _stopped_ believing you."

Lestrade shut his eyes. How the hell had Julie managed to remember all that? It had even escaped his own memory, even though the shame of being accused of a minor, laddish crime he hadn't committed was partly what had galvanised him into joining the police force in the first place.

"Julie," he said slowly. "This isn't the same sort of thing as burning down a bike shed. You remember Celeste… skinny girl with long dark hair? She's been killed, and we're... they're... treating it as suspicious. I've just come from the scene. Matthew was out there with her last night, and the investigators are going to think…"

"Oh, God," Julie blurted out. The last part was muffled, as if she'd put her hand over her mouth. "Oh my God, Greg, they think he _murdered_ someone?"

"Just come over," was all Lestrade could trust himself to say. "As soon as you can. He needs you."

* * *

John sighed and faced the bookcase in front of him like it was pistols at dawn. He was an enthusiastic reader, but only when he had his own choice of reading material.

"Molly," he called over his shoulder. "Do we even _have_ an edition of Shakespeare in this house?"

"Fourth shelf up," she called back from where she was stooped over the washing machine. "On the left, I think."

The brick-sized book John edged out was old, though hardly used. A bookplate picture of mallard ducks on a calm pond: _Ex Libris Molly Hooper._ John didn't need Sherlock's skills to deduce that it was probably an old high school textbook. He sat down on the sofa with it, thumbing through to the index page.

"Only about twelve more years and I can put you onto this stuff," he said darkly to Charlie, who was playing with a stack of blue and red plastic blocks on the hearthrug. What were the odds, he thought, that being the unofficial handler of the World's Only Consulting Detective would involve reading so much poetry? First _The Rubaiyat of Omar_ _Khayyam,_ and now this.

"What's the matter?" Molly asked him, coming in to see. She had a box of washing powder in one hand and her phone in the other, held out as if she'd just been using it.

"Where am I even supposed to start looking for this quote?" he wanted to know peevishly. "And before you get clever, we know what play it came from. Sherlock wants to know how it relates to the crime, but this may as well be Chinese for all the sense it's making to me."

"You're smart," Molly reminded him. "You passed the horrors of O Chem. You'll figure something out."

"I also dropped Shakespeare for a reason," he said, thumbing through a few more pages. "And even when they made me learn it, I still used cheat notes."

"Well, what's wrong with that?" She looked down at her phone screen again.

"Nothing, if you _have_ cheat notes. What's that?"

"Google… cheat notes. You might have thought of it, if you weren't so old-fashioned. There." She held the phone out to him. "It's awful, like we all thought. It's what Macbeth says, the first thing, when someone tells him that his wife is dead."

* * *

Lestrade had no sooner hung up the line than Hayley, now working for an insurance broker in the city, blundered in the door. She was exhausted but exuberant, and totally ignorant of anything that had happened. Another good use for Jake, to break the news and keep her out of this for the time being; Lestrade practically pushed them up the stairs together. Melissa was still with Matthew at the dining room table, but had apparently run out of meaningful things to say.

"It's okay," he heard her say as he came back in. "It's okay to be upset."

"Mel, could you, um…" Lestrade made a vague hand gesture toward the kitchen. She stood up obligingly, though he wondered if she was drafting another speech to him about saying what he wanted her to do instead of leaving her to guess. Listening to the sound of her bare feet on the kitchen tiles, he noted dully that she'd really left and wasn't eavesdropping. Matthew looked up at him in mute confusion, and he sat down heavily in the chair she had vacated.

"I called your mum, kid," he confessed. "She's coming over. It's okay, I didn't tell her about…" He stopped and cleared his throat, aware of Matthew taking note of every twitch of his face with his dark eyes. "Okay," he said at last. "I need you to listen to me, and listen carefully. Celeste didn't die by accident. And the police are going to be bringing everyone who's seen her recently in for questioning, and that includes you."

"But can't you just question me?"

Lestrade shook his head. "They won't let me work a case like this when I knew Celeste, and I can't interview a relative. So they'll give it to someone else to oversee, and once that's decided, they'll probably be here to talk to you this evening. Now listen, your mother and me and Mel - we're all going to help you. But I need you to tell me the whole truth about every single thing I ask about, okay?"

Matthew hesitated, then nodded his head.

"Did you have sex with Celeste last night? No, I'm not asking for fun." Lestrade heard his tone sharpen in response to Matthew's flinch, and he reproached himself. Of course the kid wasn't keen on having this talk. And that, frankly, made two of them. "It's important," he said. "Did you have sex with her?"

"Yes."

"And it was unprotected?"

"Uh."

 _"Jesus,_ Matthew," Lestrade groaned under his breath. Every time. Every single _bloody_ _time_ Hayley left the house… well, no. _He_ wasn't the one asking her if she had protection in her purse, since Melissa had gladly taken over that awkward role a couple of years before. But in all his fretting about Hayley, it was Matthew. Matthew, his little genius, who was so _bloody stupid…_

"And she was willing too, yeah?" he heard himself say next - then recoiled at his own words.

"Dad!"

"No, you listen to me. Whoever interviews you is going to ask you about that. No, they're probably going to _grill_ you about that."

Matthew covered his mouth with his shaking hand. "What do I do?" he asked.

"You brought your phone and laptop over from your mum's?"

He nodded. Lestrade took a deep breath.

"I need to see everything on them," he said. "And I mean _everything_. 'Cause whatever they're going to find – texts, photographs, emails, video - I need to see them first."


	3. And Direful Thunders Break

"What did you make of the Trent kids?" Donovan asked Jones and Sherlock, once they'd finished collecting names and addresses from Edward and had reached the squad car. None of them got into it.

"Boring." Sherlock lit a cigarette. "Well, go on, then, Donovan."

Donovan, visibly disgusted by the rancid puff of smoke that had just drifted into her face, raised her eyebrows. "What?"

"You were a teenage girl, once… I assume."

"Got a feeling you were more of a teenage girl than I ever was," she bit back. Sherlock's lip twitched.

"Caitlin's theatrics," he went on. "What do you make of them?"

She shrugged. "Not sure I'm a very good yardstick," she admitted, folding her arms and leaning against the car. "I probably would have thrown a fit like that over being asked to clean my room when I was that age. You, Jones?"

"I thought she was more upset about her play than anything else," Jones remarked. "Overreacting to what her brother said, 'cause she felt guilty about thinking the same thing. But I'm not real surprised about that. If she hardly even knew Celeste…"

"Yeah. Self-centred kid, but it doesn't mean she knows any more than she's saying," Donovan continued. "That stuff you were talking about, Sherlock. About what hand she wrote with."

"Yes, that had nothing to do with what hand she actually writes with," Sherlock said tersely, heaving a sigh that implied Donovan's remark had lowered his IQ. "Her stepfather. Oh, he's the last word in diligent parenting, but does he know what hand his own stepdaughter writes with? He doesn't. Edward couldn't _wait_ to tell me."

"So?"

"So there's apathy there, if not a downright estrangement. It's not simply that Caitlin's pushed him away while he's done his best to be friends with her. Even if she'd repudiated him, he should have noticed her dominant hand in the years since he married her mother." He took another drag of his cigarette. "So her outburst probably had more to do with the stepfather and the ruined play than anything to do with Celeste Biondi."

"But the play –"

"Oh, the play's a definite link, but not in the way you assume. Who would include such an incriminating quote?"

"Someone who has it in for Lestrade's kid," Jones said. Sherlock shook his head.

"No. Someone who 'has it in' for Matthew Lestrade wouldn't incriminate him in such a clumsy manner – this is a double bluff. Matthew's not stupid enough to quote a play he happens to have lead role in when murdering his girlfriend. Apart from the note, there's almost a complete lack of context for Celeste's death –"

He was interrupted by a sudden, muffled _bloop_ from the direction his coat pocket. Fishing it out, he groaned.

_Hi_

7:42pm

'Hi'? What the hell was he meant to say to that? Christabel's texts were becoming progressively dimmer and more pointless by the week.

Since the first awkward phone call to Germany three months before, Sherlock had had very little contact with his mysterious half-sister. Certainly, she'd accepted the news surprisingly well, admitting she'd discovered years ago that she had half-brothers in England but had never investigated further. But she never mentioned her parents, beyond briefly affirming that her father was still alive in America. Nor, once she'd established Mycroft's existence beyond doubt, had she ever really mentioned him, either.

She had, however, agreed to contact with Sherlock, which had mainly taken the form of the odd text and email between them.

If Sherlock had anticipated discovering a female version of himself, though, Christabel Mohler was bitterly disappointing. She had inherited her brothers' height and dark hair but, Sherlock noted when she'd sent him a recent photograph of herself, she'd also inherited the beaky nose and closely-set eyes that had been their father's unintentional gift to Mycroft. Sherlock had scanned her photograph over more than once, identifying and discarding features based on whether they came from the Holmes side of her heritage or the unknown, maternal side: Bernier. Eyes and nose: Holmes. Chin and cheekbones: Bernier, or some branch of that family. Comparative height: Holmes. Complexion: Bernier. High facial profile: Holmes. Tendency toward weight gain: probably the Bernier side, since the Holmeses consisted mostly of sinew and bone, and Mycroft's tendency toward pudginess was a combination of appalling personal habits and his mother's genetics.

Then, he'd discovered, the woman's intellectual capacity was quite ordinary, too. She'd had a good education, judging from her fluent writing style in the one or two lengthier emails she'd sent, but she worked a disappointingly ordinary job in Human Resources for the DZ bank. She seemed to have no further ambition in life than to pay the rent on the apartment she shared with her German husband, Carsten, and play mother to two English Springer spaniels.

"Your girlfriend?" Donovan swiped at him.

Sherlock shook himself out of his reverie. Without even dignifying Donovan or Christabel with a response, he shoved the phone back in his coat pocket.

* * *

Sitting on Matthew's bed, laptop open on his knees, the reality hit Lestrade like a brickbat: this was a gold mine of character-assassination evidence for a prosecution team.

Over his career, Lestrade had learned that the difference between walking away from a trial and doing time was often what investigators found in your Google search history, or under "My Pictures." It had only been six months before that the tech team had found enough evidence on Peter Duff-Charles' laptop to hand him over for murdering his wife, Annette. Google searches were often the biggest source of incriminating evidence. When a hated spouse or parent was mysteriously murdered, variations on "how to commit a murder" came up with surprising frequency on their shared family computer. And then there were all those times he spent following up false leads, just because of some bonehead stupid enough to publicly say something like, "I swear to God I'll kill you" to someone who, as rotten luck would have it, really had been killed later. The Homicide and Serious Crimes Unit even had a name for those reports: Agatha Christies.

He glanced toward the closed door. _I should be down there with him,_ he thought guiltily. _He's my son. I'm supposed to…_

He swallowed down on something. No, not now. Now, he was still so _angry..._ angry enough that he knew he'd say things he'd regret, if not give his son a good smack upside the head. Unprotected sex? What the hell had Matthew been thinking?

 _Probably, not much._ Lestrade shoved aside the fact that his own youthful adventures hadn't always been the most careful ones, either. That had been in different times - less than forty actual years, but the world had changed so much since then. Nobody'd had to worry about getting AIDS, and if you got a girl pregnant, even that wasn't the end of the world.

But Celeste Biondi didn't have HIV, and she wasn't going to get pregnant, because she was dead. And Matthew's _My Pictures_ folder wasn't just full of scanned sketches of dragons and architecture… there was also a sizeable stash marked "Artistic Nudes."

And, Lestrade thought as he glanced up from the first scanned charcoal sketch, no prosecutors he'd ever come across ever went into the nuances between "artistic nudes" and "porn". Any sixteen-year-old kid with this on their computer would be immediately labelled a pervert. And most juries would probably go with that, unless they were all artistic-types.

The first few sketches, at least, seemed not to be of Celeste herself. An older woman, probably… in her twenties? Lestrade didn't recognise her from a hole in the wall, but then, Matthew's emphasis hadn't been on an accurate portrayal of her face.

Rubbing his forehead wearily with the palm of his hand, Lestrade looked around the room, trying to think his way out of this one.

Even though Matthew only ever spent a couple of days a week at the house, he'd forged a little home-away-from-home in the spare bedroom. He'd even managed to convince his father to spend one of his weekends off painting the room a dark bottle-green that clashed with the rest of the house but, he'd insisted, went with the claret-coloured bedspread. Matthew had always been neat and organised. The only hint of chaos was at his desk, littered with graphite pencils and the sort of blue paper that made Lestrade think of top-secret submarine plans in old James Bond films. One of his own paintings hung above the bed; something entitled _Dark Maria_ and which seemed, to Lestrade's eyes, to be a meaningless blur of primarily cobalt-blue and black paint. The only other wall decoration was a periodic table on the far wall, which Matthew had gone to all the trouble of framing and putting behind glass.

"Why bother?" his father had asked him, watching him carefully level it months before. "You know all that stuff in your head anyway."

Matthew had looked back at him with, for a second, what had seemed like chilly reproach. "Because," he said, "because it's not just information. It's _art_."

Lestrade had thought initially that he meant the pretentious sort of university-student art he'd seen on far too many walls. Posters of Che Guevara from kids who had no idea who Che Guevara even was.

Apparently not.

"The way every known element in the universe can be summed up on a table and put on someone's wall," Matthew had insisted. "Don't you think that's art, Dad?"

If Lestrade had been perfectly honest about it, no, he _didn't_ think it was art. But since Matthew could draw anything, and his own stick figures didn't even look like stick figures, perhaps his son had a better grasp on "art" than he did.

So if Matthew thought drawings of nude woman in admittedly tame poses was _art,_ his father believed him. It was just a world of wrong that no jury looked likely to believe him, too.

* * *

Julie finally arrived at the house twenty minutes later. Lestrade reluctantly went down to answer the door, and took only a one-second glance at her blotchy face to confirm that she'd been crying on the way there. She was dressed well in a peach-coloured v-neck blouse and white slacks, but her dyed ash-blonde hair had obviously had no more than a brush run through it before she'd left the house. Looking at her tired, haggard face, Lestrade briefly wondered when he'd last seen her without make-up on.

"Is he still here?" she asked wretchedly, without bothering with a more traditional greeting.

"Yeah, of course." He gestured for her to come in. "Through here."

He brought her through the hall and across the kitchen to where Mel now had Matthew sitting on the sofa, nursing a cup of tea. On seeing his mother, he set it absently on the floor and wobbled to his feet. She threw her arms around him.

"Mum, I don't know anything about what happened –"

"We believe you," she said hoarsely. "We believe you, Matthew."

Melissa quietly rose from her spot on the sofa and took Lestrade aside in the doorway for a second. "I'm not going to be difficult about this," she said in his ear.

"I know you're not."

"I'll stay out of it –"

"Yeah, I don't want you to stay out of it." Lestrade took a deep breath. "You asked me before we got engaged," he said with difficulty. "You asked me if you were part of my family or not – and you are. So I don't want you to stay out of it. Besides, you know how this works better than Julie does."

"I've been trying to prep him for what's going to happen if they take him to the station. Letting him know his rights about DNA samples and things."

Lestrade nodded.

"They'd be mad if they didn't at least get him to 'assist with their enquiries.'"

"I know," he said wretchedly. "But I think anything he does or doesn't say is probably the least of his problems just now. There are other types of evidence."

* * *

Julie spent the next half an hour nursing successive cups of tea on the sofa next to her son. Hayley, who still had a somewhat strained relationship with her mother, remained upstairs with Jake for the most part. When Lestrade finally coaxed Julie upstairs to the privacy of Matthew's bedroom, he passed Hayley's closed bedroom door; for the first time in his life, he wasn't particularly concerned about what might have been going on behind it. Once he'd ushered Julie into Matthew's bedroom, he shut the door behind her and picked up Matthew's mobile phone, sitting innocuously on the desk where he'd left it.

"Um, I need you to watch this," he muttered, pressing a couple of buttons with his thumb and holding it out to her. "Video… time-stamped last night. Looks like it goes for a couple of minutes."

Julie took it in her hand, looking up at him suspiciously. "Okay," she said slowly. "Why am I looking at it?"

"Because… because I watched the first ten seconds, and I need to know if it's what I think it is," he said, almost desperately. "I can't… look, just, please, look at it."

Julie sank down on the mattress, flicking the video on awkwardly. He watched her as she watched it, but her expression did not change in any way. From the other side of the room, the sound on the video was full of feedback and almost unintelligible, but he noted no sense of urgency or fear in the distorted female voice he heard. When at last the video ceased, Julie cleared her throat.

"Okay," she said, cupping her chin in one hand. "So it's a video of Celeste in some kind of a dirty, shadowy room, with bare floorboards. She's wearing a purple dress, and then she takes it off."

Lestrade groaned mentally. Exactly as he'd thought. "Do they…?"

Julie shook her head. "You can hear Matthew's voice, but you never see him. They don't do anything."

"And she looks… " Lestrade cleared his throat. "She looks happy, willing to be taking her clothes off…?"

"Greg!"

"Julie, will you _stop being so bloody naïve about this?_ This is a _murder enquiry,_ and depending on how hard the prosecutors want to throw the book at him, they've got enough evidence here to charge our son as a sex offender. _"_

Julie startled, as if she'd been given an electric shock. "What?" she demanded. "How is this… she was sixteen, wasn't she?"

"Yes. And it's legal for sixteen-year-old kids to have all the sex they want, but the second one of them starts filming it, they can go down for creating child pornography."

"We need to delete this."

"What? Jesus Christ, Julie, _no!"_ Lestrade snatched the phone out of her hand before she could try. She pulled back in alarm; for a few seconds, they looked at each other in silence.

"The Met employs specialist tech teams for these cases," he explained in much calmer tones. "Nothing ever really gets deleted from a computer or a phone. They can still pull data from this. They can pull data saying that someone _deliberately tried to wipe the contents._ Do you seriously think they're going to think it was you and not Matthew? And exactly what good is that going to do, anyway?" He looked at the phone in silence for a few seconds, listening to Julie breathing into one hand. "No," he said at last. "No, this is good news."

" _Good_ news?"

"If she looks like she's having the time of her life, it doesn't give much of a reason why Matthew would push her off a roof less than an hour later, does it. The police are going to confiscate this, and his laptop. And we're going to let them take them…"

The sharp knocking sound from downstairs startled both of them. Someone was at the front door… someone from the Met. Lestrade knew that sound. There was a doorbell in plain sight of the front door, but officers were unofficially trained not to use them when they came to make an arrest. Hammering on the door panel created a much more intimidating sound.

"Don't get that!" he called down the staircase. He took the stairs two at a time, only dimly aware of Julie following behind. At last he reached the doorstep and threw the door open, finding Detective Inspector June Merivale on the doorstep.

His shoulders dropped. They'd given the case to Merivale.

DI June Merivale was a fixture of the Yard, having almost ten years active service on Lestrade and most of his contemporaries. A talented detective, she'd more than once been urged to go for DCI, and there were some in the force who felt she could easily become Commissioner. But she had never applied for a promotion, saying she preferred to work her own cases, not hide behind a desk and send detectives out in her place.

Did things her own way, Lestrade knew, but _did_ them. She'd been highly praised eight years before for being able to talk a mentally disturbed woman out of throwing her toddler off the roof of a multistorey carpark in Smithfield. She was not, however, a soft touch, despite her gender, her three children, and her five grandchildren. She was unlikely to do Matthew any favours in the interview room.

"Hi," she said, a little bleakly. She glanced over her shoulder at her sergeant, Alan Peters, who obligingly took a couple of steps back. "I suppose I should go through all the formalities for why we're here."

"You're taking Matthew in for questioning." It was not a question.

Merivale nodded. "I'm sorry, Greg," she said. "I'm just doing my job. Let's just get all this cleared up as soon as possible, okay?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Lestrade stepped down and shut the front door behind himself. "Listen, Merivale… June," he corrected himself, remembering her abiding dislike of being addressed by her last name. "Matthew's sixteen years old. His girlfriend just got murdered. And he's… not like other kids his age. Gets upset about _little_ things. I know what your responsibilities are here, and I _get_ that, but I'm asking you for a big favour."

She frowned suspiciously. "Which is what?"

"I want you to let me and Julie put him in the car and take him to the station ourselves, of his own free will."

"Greg-"

"If you arrest him, he's going to completely freak out," he said over the top of her. "Trust me – I've known this kid since he was born. He's… compliant. He likes to please people. Maybe a bit too much. So he's not going to cause you any grief in giving a statement of what happened, and his mother and I will see to that, too. But if you tell him he's under arrest, he may very well go into the kind of meltdown where he can't remember his own name. And what kind of an interview is that going to be? A waste of time."

She shut her eyes and exhaled, thinking this over.

"June," he urged her. "Come on. Please. If this happened to one of your sons – "

"Yeah," she said briefly, opening her eyes and returning to a practical tone of voice. "You know what? I'm thinking 'if Celeste was my daughter.'"

"Either way, you'd want a suspect to give a proper interview, where they can actually be helpful," Lestrade said. "He didn't do this, and we want to give him the best opportunity to prove it."

She glanced back over her shoulder. "I'm sending an officer with you in the car as an escort," she finally said.

"Which one?" he asked, wary. Her sending an officer like DC Pinari along with them wasn't going to help Matthew one bit.

"Sarah Draper. And that's my final offer, Greg."

He scrubbed one hand over his jaw for a second. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Bring Draper in, then. And, uh, June… there's someone else I want you to work with. Please. I'm about to call Sherlock Holmes."


	4. All Our Yesterdays

For the first three minutes of the car trip to New Scotland Yard, there was nothing but silence. Lestrade had relegated DC Draper to the back seat beside Julie, so that Matthew could sit beside him.

"Might actually get a parking spot at this time of an evening," he remarked casually over his shoulder, pulling down the sun visor and squinting into a sunset of flaming orange clouds. He glanced across at Matthew, who was staring almost unblinkingly at the shops and flats and people that zoomed by. Briefly, he let go of the wheel to pat his shoulder. "You've done nothing wrong," he said. "So you've got nothing to be ashamed about."

 _Except maybe that video._ Lestrade set his jaw. Thanks to Sarah Draper in the back seat, he couldn't even give Matthew a lecture prepping him on how the bloody hell he was going to explain _that_ to the investigators. Hopefully Julie had the good sense to shut up about it, at least with an officer in earshot. Julie was clever, but she wasn't familiar with the ins and outs of the law, and was prone to disconnections between her brain and mouth when upset.

"Is Mel coming?" Matthew asked, so low that his father could barely hear him over the sound of the engine.

Lestrade heard Julie fidget.

"Yeah," he said. "Right behind us, maybe five or ten minutes. She had some stuff at home to follow up with before she left."

And five or ten minutes, he reflected, would give Sherlock Holmes extra time to show up… and probably have one hell of a row with June Merivale. The woman who'd given them an escort to make sure they actually showed up at New Scotland Yard wouldn't be keen on allowing a civilian, no matter how well-known and respected, anywhere near her case.

* * *

 _I wonder how keen Bill and Laura will be to babysit like this when we've got three kids under the age of two,_ Molly thought grimly to herself, fumbling to put on her protective rubber boots prior to stepping into the morgue. She'd left Charlie, happy and sleepy, at the Murray's for the night. Their son Brynn was only seven months older than Charlie, and they'd said time and again that she was no trouble whenever they were both called out to work late at night and didn't want to bother Harry to babysit.

Now that the news was out – to Sherlock, anyway – there were quite a few people who needed to know before Bill and Laura, and the first of these was Sharon.

Professor Sharon Knowles had been promoted into the position of Acting Lab Director since Harding had been forced to step down in disgrace. For all of the administrative duties her promotion had given her, though, she was always a good sport about helping out where needed. Just then Molly needed an assistant, and Sharon was on hand, which settled it. She stepped in just as Molly was donning her scrubs.

"Evening," she said wryly. "I wish it were under better circumstances."

"So do I," Molly said. "I hate it when they're young, or, you know, died in a way that might have hurt. Um. Sharon, I do need to tell you some things before we start."

"Oh?" Sharon pulled her scrub-suit off the hook it rested on. "Fire away."

"Um. So you know I'm a little bit… involved? Well, it's a bit complicated, but this girl, she was the girlfriend of a friend's son. And, well, it looks like they think he was the one who did it."

"Okay." Sharon did not sound surprised; but then, Molly thought, why would she? She'd been "'involved" in quite a few of the corpses that came in and out of the morgue. "Did you know her?" she asked.

Molly shook her head.

"Do you know the son?" Sharon zipped up her suit and started searching around for a plastic cap to cover her abundance of red hair.

"Not very well." The last Molly had actually seen Matthew Lestrade had been at Mrs Hudson's funeral, and they hadn't spoken. She knew him mainly as a skulking teen who wandered in and out of the scene whenever she was over at Greg and Mel's.

"I didn't know either of them, so I think we can still let the science do the talking. Are you planning on going in there without gloves or something?" Sharon glanced down at Molly's bare hands. Or rather, her ungloved hands, since she was still wearing her engagement and wedding rings. Protocol demanded these be removed and locked away as part of her prep process before starting a post mortem, and she had never forgotten before.

"No," she said. "But, you still may not want me to do this, because um, I'm pregnant."

"Seriously?" Sharon raised an eyebrow.

Molly nodded. "Nearly twelve weeks now."

"Twelve _weeks? Molly._ You know you're supposed to check in as soon as you get a positive test and subscribe to The List of Things You're Not Allowed to Do."

Molly was already well familiar with the list of what were more professionally called Activity Restrictions to be cross-checked with her obstetrician. No heavy lifting, and there was now an entire list of substances she was no longer allowed to play with, gloves and masks be damned, just in case.

"I know," she said. "I haven't done anything that I'm not supposed to, though. I remember when I was having Charlie, my doctor said I was all right with autopsies as long as I didn't do any heavy lifting and there was no danger of, you know, contact poison or something."

Sharon sighed. "Okay," she said. "I'm not going to banish you to paperwork just yet, but you really should have said something ages ago. Let's get this poor kid done, and then we'll go through all that business. Also, congratulations."

* * *

"It's a perfectly reasonable request, Inspector," Sherlock Holmes remarked, taking his gloves off and laying them in his lap. "My role in assisting the police has been signed off by Commissioner Hale himself."

 _So this is the annoying prat Greg Lestrade loves so much,_ June Merivale reflected to herself, observing him from the other side of her desk.

For it was obvious Lestrade loved him, as fiercely and protectively as he loved his own children. Anyone who doubted it clearly hadn't been there during the Paul Doherty case; hadn't been there the day he'd called up every senior detective he knew and begged them for help getting the kidnapped Holmes back safe and sound. They'd not seen the state he'd been in that night, even booting a suspect, which he'd never been known to do before. They didn't know how, after Holmes had been recovered alive but seriously injured, he'd almost immediately applied for two weeks of leave so he could stay near him while he recovered. Payroll had granted it to him, despite the fact that he had two other active cases open at the time, and that sort of leave was really only reserved for incidents involving a detective's immediate family.

Greg Lestrade just wasn't the sort of person to unofficially co-opt Sherlock Holmes into his immediate family, just because he was clever and could solve cases faster than anyone else. There had to be other reasons, though Merivale had no idea what those reasons could be. By all accounts, Sherlock Holmes was obnoxious and tactless.

He was also undoubtedly well-dressed, clever, and good-looking. And just now, seated across the desk from her, he was also calm and composed, the very essence of good breeding. A memory flashed through her of the last time she'd seen him, lying semi-conscious in the road the night he'd been kidnapped and recovered. Lestrade had draped his coat over him as he lay shivering and bleeding on the bitumen.

"I've still got the right to refuse your help, such as it is," she reminded him frostily. "The contract _allows_ you to work with the Met; it doesn't give you permission to crash any investigation you please." She flipped the first page of the paperwork in front of her and pretended to examine it. "Also," she remarked, "I don't believe I've been given a contract for John Watson."

Sherlock huffed, kicking at the floor in a way that reminded Merivale of her eldest son, Christopher, at his most impossible. "He's entirely trustworthy," he said through gritted teeth. "And on his way. His profession demands regular police checks, if that's any help to you."

"Be that as it may –"

"Oh, for God's sake." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you know nothing about me, Inspector, then you ought to be paying more attention. Over the past ten years, I have solved forty-two major cases for the Metropolitan Police. And I was assisted throughout by John Watson in twenty of those cases. His contributions are a matter of public record, and so is the fact that since my contract came into place, he has continued to assist me with the full knowledge of upper command, and without restriction. Now to save us both time, just tell me, are you going to force my hand into putting in a call to Commissioner Hale?"

For the next few seconds, Merivale sat deep in thought.

"You know how this works, Holmes," she said finally, putting the contract papers down on the desk. "I've had multiple reports about you, all saying the same thing – you like to think you're above the rules. You aren't. If you risk this investigation or prejudice any potential trial by telling Greg Lestrade, or any of his family, _any_ restricted information, I will have you in court so fast your head will spin. You're not going to be Lestrade's little man-on-the-inside on this one. You will be assisting me, not him. And you will be signing legalities to that effect."

"Yes."

"Any mouth, any difficulty, the _slightest_ thing to irritate me, and I will throw you _and_ John Watson off this case. Is that clear?"

"Quite clear – " A furtive knock on the door behind him cut him off. When bidden to do so, John opened it a few inches.

"Sorry," he said to Merivale as she got up and crossed the room to him. "They said at the desk to just knock on the door. Detective Inspector Merivale, is it? I think we've met – John Watson." He offered her his hand and, after a barely perceptible pause, she took it. "Hi. Are the Lestrades here yet?"

* * *

"Julie," Greg muttered as they crossed the carpark, with Matthew walking ahead of them with DC Draper. "We might have to wait a bit before he goes in, to get a lawyer on the case. I've called Pam Greer. She's good with this sort of thing. Got a nice touch with the younger ones." He remembered how gently she'd treated Adelaide Bartlett, even when the woman's sobbing hysterics had ripped through everyone else's nerves.

"Okay." Julie was looking down at her feet, picking her way across the level concrete.

"And also," he said, "he's got the right to another adult in there with him, too. It's pretty much the law that he has to have one."

She gave him a doubtful glance, but he thought he saw something a little playful in it. "Try not to kill someone, Greg," she said, in tones that implied _please kill someone if you have to._

"No, I didn't mean me." He exhaled. "I want Mel to do it – for _professional reasons,"_ he insisted as she opened her mouth to protest. "I'm not playing favourites, and she's not in there as his mother. She's a forensic psychologist, and she's good at it. She knows Matthew pretty well, she knows how all this works, and she can keep her temper better than either of us can… " He suddenly held up one hand, signalling to Melissa, who was locking her car at the far end of the carpark. They both heard the distant bleep of central locking, and she he hailed him in return with one hand and hurried toward them.

"Such impractical shoes," Julie remarked. "She'll trip over and break an ankle in those."

"What about those bloody platform things _you_ used to wear?" he protested. "Your old man used to make you change them every single time I came over to take you out. Look, please," he said a little desperately, while Melissa was still out of earshot. "She's trying to help. Let her."

* * *

"Here we all are again," Sherlock remarked drily, pulling off his gloves and putting them down on the interview room table. He'd managed to convince Merivale that his usual method of work was direct questioning, and had permission to proceed with Matthew while she took a mainly supervisory role. She hadn't the faintest idea how to refer to him for the benefit of the audio recording as they settled in, so had defaulted to an embarrassed sounding, _Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson._

"Matthew," Sherlock started. "When I first met you, you were, what, six years old?"

Matthew nodded.

"You need to talk, Matty," Melissa spoke up quietly from beside him. "For the recording. And just so we don't misunderstand you."

"Yes," he said, in a surprisingly clear voice.

"And you'll recall," Sherlock went on, "that it was early December, and you were telling me all about Santa Claus. And I told you Santa Claus was just a lie adults tell children to get them to behave at certain times of the year. You were upset. Your father was _more_ upset. Do you remember what I told you after that?"

Matthew frowned, thinking hard for a few seconds. "No," he said.

"I likened telling the truth to the removal a sticking plaster. There are two main methods: ripping it off quickly, and easing it off slowly. I favour the quicker method, in both cases."

Matthew glanced uncertainly at John and then across at Melissa. "Okay," he said, clearing his throat. "But I don't really understand —"

"Ordinarily, the officers in an interview like this have a set method they use," Sherlock said, "depending on when and where they were trained, and how you react in response to it. Were this being conducted exclusively by detectives Merivale and Peters, they would probably spend a good hour or two coddling you, trying to make small talk, offering you tea and biscuits, lulling you into a false sense of trust before trying to make you contradict yourself and unravel your own story. I don't play those sort of games. Short, sharp truths. What were you doing with Celeste at Severndroog Castle yesterday?"

"You don't have to answer that," Pam told her client, just as Melissa glared daggers at Sherlock from across the table.

"No, you don't," Sherlock agreed. "Unless, of course, you'd like the forensics to prove you're withholding important evidence."

"Mr. Holmes –"

"Inspector Merivale, I have my methods," Sherlock insisted, holding one hand up to silence her. When she withdrew, he muttered, "I don't know how I'm expected to work with someone who is so utterly _ignorant_ of me and my work."

* * *

Almost from the moment the interview room door had shut behind them, Greg Lestrade had been pacing around the waiting room like a captive lion. Constable Brian Claymont was on desk duty and caught his eye every now and again, offering him a timid, polite smile, and Lestrade had found himself smiling back out of habit. _Oh, don't mind me. I'm just here on personal business. You know how it is when your kids get accused of murdering people. Difficult little bastards they can be in their teens, am I right?_ Claymont was one of Alec McDonald's boys, though Lestrade knew him by sight as decent and hard-working. On his fifth aimless tour around the room, he finally stopped at Claymont's desk.

"Sorry," he said, shuffling. "I usually get coffee from the back tea room up there, but I don't have an access pass right now. Is there anywhere else…?"

Claymont got out of his chair, upbeat and alert. "End of the hall and to your left, sir," he said, pointing. "But a word of caution, it's a vending machine and the coffee that comes out of it is a right horror. I can get Hensley to make you some and bring it out. For your missus as well?"

Lestrade flinched. "The ex."

"Okay," Claymont said, pulling a wry face. "For the ex as well?"

"Both white, one sugar," he muttered. "Thanks, Brian."

* * *

"Just start from the beginning," Sherlock said calmly, and beside him, Merivale sighed in what sounded like relief. This was, at least, a little closer to standard police procedure than expecting an immediate tell-all. "Try to restrict things to what is _relevant_."

Matthew cleared his throat. "We went out on the train," he muttered. "Got off about twenty to three, I think it was. We walked across Shepherdleas Wood."

"Did you walk straight across?" John asked, scribbling idly on the notebook he'd pulled out of one pocket. "Or did you stop somewhere on the way?"

"Stopped on the way." Matthew looked down at his hands. "Um. I wanted to read some lines with her, for the play."

"Macbeth?"

Matthew nodded. Then, as Melissa nudged him again, he said, "Yes, for Macbeth."

"Which part were you rehearsing with her?" John asked, scribbling away again.

"Act, uh. Act five, mostly."

"Act five." Sherlock glanced at Melissa. "'And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death'?"

"Yes," Matthew said, confused but eager to cooperate. "Yeah, that's part of this soliloquy in act five. I always have trouble with that part. Celeste was just there to hold the book and give me a nudge if I forgot anything."

" _Just_ there?" John challenged him good-naturedly. "I think that might be stretching it, mate. Nice romantic kind of spot, down there."

Matthew shrugged. "I suppose so," he said.

"And I'd have thought you'd taken your camera, or your sketchbook, or something," John went on. "God knows I would, if I were any good at that kind of thing. Just a thought. So what time did you get to the castle?"

"About… half-four."

"And you broke in," Sherlock said.

Matthew's gaze wandered to Merivale, who leaned back in her chair, massaging her temples. Sherlock Holmes might have been some sort of observational genius, but he had no idea in the world how to give a sane interview. "You're not going to be punished for breaking and entering," she said. "Because we don't care about that right now. We only want to find out what happened to Celeste, so we really do need you to tell the truth."

Matthew looked down at his hands, still smudged with fingerprint ink and traces of graphite from the dragon motif he'd been working on earlier. "I broke a couple of the boards off one window," he mumbled. "We weren't going to break anything, we just wanted to get out of the wind – "

"So you're asking us to believe that you were in an abandoned, semi-secluded building with your girlfriend for approximately three and a half hours, reading Shakespeare together, and doing nothing else," Sherlock remarked with contempt.

"No, we were –"

"Don't answer that," Pam Greer broke in, but it was too late; her admonishment hadn't quite drowned out the rest of Matthew's sentence.

Melissa put her face in her hands for a second, then put one hand on his shoulder, giving it a light pat.

"Where?" John asked calmly after the silence had run its course. "I mean, where exactly."

"The wood. The castle."

"Both the wood _and_ the castle?"

Matthew nodded. "But that's okay, isn't it?" he asked, looking from Pam to Melissa and back. "That's not illegal. I left her there just before eight o'clock to get the train back…"

"That's hardly gentlemanly of you," Sherlock commented. "Why didn't she get the train back with you?"

"I don't know," Matthew insisted, looking again to Melissa for help; but her expression remained pleasant and neutral. "I didn't know I was supposed to ask!"

* * *

Julie sat with her head in her hands, staring at a random spot on the floor near her left shoe. Sinking back down into the chair two down from hers, Lestrade said and did nothing to break her solitude until Hensley had brought over a cardboard tray containing two cups and given it to him.

"Thank you," he told Hensley, who muttered something about it being no problem and then disappeared into the back office behind Claymont again. Gingerly balancing the tray of hot cups in one hand, Lestrade leaned over and touched Julie's shoulder with the other. "Coffee, Julie," he said blandly.

Julie looked up vaguely. "Sorry," she said, sitting up straighter. "Wool-gathering. Um. Yes. Thank you." She gingerly extricated the hot Styrofoam cup he held out to her from the tangle of his fingers, sipping it in silence. He cradled his in both hands, content to leave it be, until Julie broke the silence again.

"Are you really going to marry that little thing?" She was looking at the closed interview-room door, as if doing so for long enough would enable her to see through it.

Lestrade opened his mouth to give the first smart-arse reply to hand: _are you really going to marry that insufferable bore?_ At the last minute, though, he stopped himself. He knew when Julie was being sarcastic, and this was not one of those times. _Little thing_ had bordered on the affectionate. He cleared his throat. "Uh, yes," he said.

"She's very young."

"She's thirty, Julie." _Thirty next March._ "You were only twenty-two when we got married."

 _"_ _You_ were twenty-two when we got married," she pointed out.

"Yeah, and I don't know what the bloody hell I was thinking."

Julie smiled, a little wistfully. "I don't know either, Greg."

"But I like flatter myself in thinking I might _sort of_ know what I'm doing this time around," he said. "Even if I –"

Across the hall, a young PC in uniform hurried over and knocked on the interview-room door.

"What is it…?" Julie asked as he got to his feet.

"Don't know," he muttered. "But something's going on." _Even the work experience kid knows you never knock on the door when the interview light's on. Not unless something's happened…_

The interview room door swung open and Merivale emerged; the PC whispered a few words to her. She put her hand to her chin for a second, then spoke a few words to someone back in the interview room and shut the door behind her. She and the PC wandered away from the door, both talking in urgent, sharp-edged hush. Finally, she sent the PC scurrying and went back to the interview room, stridently shoving the door open and letting it fall into place behind her. Within half a minute she emerged again, followed by the others.

"Lestrade," she said, as he and Julie came over to see what was going on. "We're granting Matthew conditional release for tonight. The desk sergeant has paperwork that you and his mother need to fill out regarding the terms of his release, and I want you to bring him back at nine o'clock tomorrow morning for further questioning."

"Wait," Lestrade said. He glanced across at Mel and then at Sherlock, but neither of them betrayed anything of what had just happened. "Wait. What's going on?"

Merivale groaned. "You know that's confidential," she said, "you're on a strictly need-to-know basis just now. Take Matthew home, and all of you get a good night's sleep. Come on, Peters, we haven't got all night."

This was odd. No, this was _wrong_. Lestrade knew that if he had been in Merivale's position, he'd have spent hours interrogating every aspect of that kid's life, for as long as the law and the parents allowed him to. Matthew had only been in the interview room for about twenty minutes.

"Oh, Christ," he blurted out. "You've found –"

"I said _leave it alone,_ Greg." Merivale rounded on him, attracting the attention of every officer in a radius of thirty feet. "You're not a detective," she said in much lower tones. "Not now, not here. You'll be told what you need to know and when you need to know it. In the meantime, stay clear of this, okay? I'll see you back here at nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

Lestrade looked at John, catching his gaze. He'd never ask John to betray the security of the case – but he didn't have to. John Watson was the most transparent person he'd ever met. Couldn't lie straight in bed. He gave a slight nod, perhaps an involuntary one.

_Shit. They've found another one._

"Please, June," he said. "You're taking those two with you, right?"

June looked despairingly at Sherlock, who so far had miraculously said nothing. "If either of you contaminate the crime scene or the evidence, or piss me off in any other way, I will have you escorted from the crime scene and into a holding cell," she said sweetly. "Come on, then. Hurry up."


	5. What Pain

John had often wondered about the cab drivers who shunted Sherlock and himself between cases. How much had their cabbie heard and understood that evening five years before, when Sherlock had taken his phone and deduced half his life from it? What had the dozens of others since then made of it, when their passengers had suddenly struck up a back-seat conversation about intestines and land mines and dominatrices?

Well, cabbies were paid to be discreet, he reasoned. Anyway, most of them had probably had worse passengers than the two of them discussing gory crimes. Ones who got up to all sorts in the back seat, or threw up back there coming home after a bender.

He thought wryly of the event that had more or less cut short his honeymoon – Molly vomiting, mostly on him, in the back seat of that cab in Paris. She could hardly be blamed for that one, with Charlie on the way. His thoughts reached the nagging anxiety that had been plaguing him for weeks. _We only wanted one more. How are we going to manage twins?_

He cleared his throat. "So he's innocent, then?"

Sherlock had been lost in thought, his chin resting on his hand. At this he stirred and looked across at him. "Of course he's innocent," he said. "What sort of a perpetrator would make up something so stupidly incriminating as his leaving a teenage girl to her fate, because it _never occurred to him_ to escort her home for her own safety?"

John frowned. "Yeah," he said slowly. "That… was a bit weird."

"No, it wasn't." Sherlock turned back to the window. "He left her there because he was expected home, but she never expressed a desire to leave."

"Why not?"

"Do think this one through."

"… Because she was planning on meeting someone else there," John faltered. "The person who killed her?"

"Maybe," Sherlock said. "Maybe the person she intended to meet came across her corpse some time later and just left her there, with no word – they didn't want to get involved. People don't, you know. Or maybe she intended to leave the castle alone and travel in the opposite direction to Matthew, for some reason."

"The perpetrator," John said. "At the crime scene, you gave a profile… but that was just based on who she might have slept with, wasn't it? Good looking, not too much older, smelled nice. Not exactly your most amazing deduction."

Sherlock smiled for a second.

"But she slept with Matthew, and you reckon he didn't do it," John went on. "And Celeste's parents said they were expecting her home last night, so what was she playing at, meeting someone there when she should have been on her way back?"

"Celeste's parents didn't report her missing until midday, and she'd already been dead at least twelve hours by then," Sherlock pointed out. "Obviously, she's made enough of a habit of staying out that they weren't alarmed when she didn't return for her curfew. I'm sure Harry always came home on time every night she was expected to."

John smiled wryly. "Harry turned climbing out of windows in the dark into a fine art form."

"I can imagine."

John looked down at his notepad, as if puzzling out his own notes could advance the case. Sherlock sometimes cracked things wide open by staring for hours at a collection of clippings thumbtacked to the wall at Baker Street. But _he_ wasn't a consulting detective, and he hadn't written down anything of great worth. Just useless scribbles, really, like _left at 8pm_ and _broken boards._ "And now this new one," he said. "This new victim. Male, late forties. Completely different victim to Celeste, but they think it's another one from the same killer?"

"Clearly the same MO."

"Another note, then." John exhaled. "And the last one was handwritten. Are they analysing it?"

"Standard procedure. But it's unlikely to give us too many useful leads," Sherlock said. "Handwriting analysis is generally only useful if one has something to compare it to."

"Serial killers usually stick to the same kind of victim, don't they? And why all the secrecy from Greg, anyway? It'll be on the news tomorrow morning, if the media are doing their jobs."

Sherlock shifted in his seat. "You don't lip-read, do you?"

"No." John sighed heavily. "But I've got a feeling you're about to tell me that – "

"I do. And as we walked out the door, Sergeant Alan Peters asked Merivale what was going on. I saw, rather than heard, her response."

"What was it?"

"'One of Lestrade's boys.' Given Matthew is the only son he has, and we left him safe and sound at the station, the newest victim is a member of Lestrade's team."

"Shit," John groaned into his hand. _As if Greg hasn't got enough to worry about._ "Which one, do you think?"

"You just said it," Sherlock said. " _Male, late forties._ Only one regular member of Lestrade's team fits that description. _"_

John thought this over for a few seconds. "Oh, God," he finally said. "Bob Thompson."

* * *

Sherlock had always said it, right from the beginning – each murder, and each murder scene, was as distinct and unique as a fingerprint. But the little white house they eventually pulled up at, now festooned with yellow police tape and flooded with harsh spotlights, seemed just like many of the other crime scenes John had attended in the last five years. There were a lot of unfamiliar faces about, though, since he'd never worked with anyone on Merivale's team. On getting out of the car he caught a glimpse of Philip Anderson in the open doorway, silhouetted against the light.

"Well," he said to Sherlock, gesturing. "At least we've got Anderson here."

Sherlock grunted, but there wasn't time to comment on Anderson's value as a forensic tech before he came forward and met them on the front step.

"Gear up," he said coldly, without any form of greeting. "All of it, Holmes."

Just as Donovan had defaulted to _Genius,_ Anderson was now in the habit of addressing Sherlock as _Holmes._ John had never remarked on it, but in some ways, it sounded worse than _Freak._ Real public-school stuff, conjuring up a past world of wealthy, privileged bullies, with all the morals of a pack of wild animals. Anderson wasn't going to shove Sherlock face-first against a wall or hold him down under a scalding shower, but he'd sure as hell had fun smirking at the regulations he now had to follow.

Sherlock hissed, annoyed, but he'd been through this routine before. Neither Anderson nor Merivale were going to allow him past the threshold without his having full protective gear on. He looked back at John uncertainly, then took off his coat and scarf and gave them to the nearest PC.

"Mind those," he ordered. "And be _careful_ with them." He took the protective suit Anderson handed him and started putting it on.

"Who's that?" John asked quietly as he did the same. A crying woman in her mid-forties was sitting in one of the squad cars; beside her, a policewoman was trying to put a blanket over her shoulders.

"Widow," Sherlock said bluntly. "Or close to it. No wedding or engagement ring. They're either separated or divorced, but she probably found the body - "

"Sherlock," Anderson said.

Sherlock looked up at him.

"Does Greg know about this?"

"Not yet, but it will only be a matter of time." Sherlock zipped up his suit and reluctantly took a pair of gloves from him. "They may even have someone out there tonight with the news."

"Well, if you want my advice – "

"I don't."

"You'll watch your mouth around here," Anderson went on, undeterred. "These officers – they're in shock. They always are when it happens to one of their own. We need your help, but if you say the wrong thing in front of the wrong person, they're going to punch your head in for it."

"Come on, Anderson," Sherlock said, smiling wryly. "You've not noticed that we only ever bury saints?"

"For the time you're here at this crime scene, Thompson _was_ a saint… Detective Inspector Merivale," he said deferentially as she approached into earshot. "Just prepping these two. We're acquainted."

"Yes, I know." Merivale's tones were so bland that almost nothing of her opinion of Anderson could be read from them. "And I'm told you two gentlemen are also familiar with this sort of violent crime scene."

"Uh, yes," John muttered, glancing over and seeing the disdainful expression on Sherlock's face. "Former army, in my case."

"Then you know what it's like to lose a fellow soldier, Dr. Watson," Merivale said.

John nodded.

"I didn't know Thompson, but some of the others here did. Remember that. I haven't had a look yet, but I'm told it's not a pretty sight in there."

* * *

DS Robert Thompson, aged forty-eight, lay sprawled on the kitchen floor on his back, one leg bent under the other at a hideously unnatural angle. Something viscous and sticky was splashed all over his head and face, and a swarm of flies writhed over his open eyes and in and out of his nose and mouth. His swollen, grey tongue poked out from between his encrusted lips.

A large white rectangle of paper was pinned to the front of his shirt. From the other side of the room John made out aggressive black lettering, just as the paper fluttered up on itself and hid them again.

John looked at Merivale. "I won't touch anything," he said. "Normally I just have a look…"

She shrugged. "Well, go on, then," she said, "have your look."

Flicking aside Merivale's contemptuous tone, John carefully edged forward to the body. At any crime scene supervised by Lestrade, he'd not had to keep "having a look" strictly literal, so long as common sense prevailed. But the thought of how Greg was going to react to one of his closest colleagues being murdered checked any temptation to try Merivale at her threat to remove both Sherlock and himself from the crime scene. Merivale may have told Sherlock he wasn't going to be Lestrade's man on the inside, but as people loved to remind him, he wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

He folded his arms against the urge to tweak Thompson's head to one side for a better look at his neck, or lift the paper pinned to his shirt.

"Judging from the looks of him, he's been dead at least thirty-six hours," he finally said. "Maybe as many as forty-eight, but I wouldn't think that much in this sort of weather." The August day had been warm, and even so late as it was, the breeze coming in through the half-open kitchen window wasn't chilly. "And we're only just finding him now?"

"Lives alone, and had the weekend off, according to the schedule on the fridge door. More importantly, it looks like he was already dead when Celeste Biondi met her killer." Sherlock dropped down on his haunches beside him and sniffed deeply. John recoiled. The room smelled like a lot of things, and none of them were pleasant.

But now he thought about it, there _was_ an odd smell underneath the stench of faeces and urine and sweat and two-day decay. Something sour that he couldn't place.

"Cause of death?" he heard Peters ask over his shoulder.

He smiled grimly. "Impossible to say just by looking at him," he said. "But you see he's got cyanosis around the mouth, and I think the hands. Could have been asphyxiated, but there are no marks on his neck, and I think the note might be spot on for this one." He gingerly uncurled the paper on the dead man's chest to re-read the stark, swooping black words written on it.

_What pain it was to drown!_

"And not difficult to see what he drowned _in_ ," Sherlock remarked practically, rising to his feet and walking over to the sink. "The sink is still full of it." Bending forward so that his lips almost touched the stainless steel, he sniffed again. "Claret, mainly, if I'm not very much mistaken."

Now John recognised the odd smell that Sherlock, no doubt, had placed immediately. Red wine, of course. It was the vestiges of wine on the dead man's hair and face that had attracted every summer fly in London into the room. He glanced over at the open window, then back at the note pinned to the dead man's shirt.

No wonder there was a very young uniformed PC standing in the front hall who, while neither crying nor vomiting, sounded like he wanted to call his mother.

"I'll make it easy for you all." Sherlock turned back to face the room. "This is a quote from Shakespeare's play, _Richard III._ In context, it's a line from the Duke of Clarence, referencing a dream he had. Later in the scene, he is drowned on his brother's orders, in a butt of Malmsey wine."

By now Sherlock had attracted the attention not only of Merivale, but of Alan Peters and several other attending officers. Anderson, too, stood in the doorway listening in.

"Okay," Peters said. He was a thin, sharp-nosed man in his mid-thirties, with temples that bulged through his thinning dark hair. "So what's that got to do with Bob Thompson?"

"Some sources indicate that, traditionally, a pig's head was pickled in each butt, or cask," Sherlock told him. "Rather an appropriate death, then, for a police officer who was very clearly an alcoholic - "

* * *

"Actually, Sherlock," John said, "I'm surprised Peters didn't hit you harder for that one."

"Oh, shut _up_ ," Sherlock growled, his voice muffled through the tissue John had offered him for his bloody nose. The pair of them stood on the street-lit kerb outside the Thompson house, awaiting the arrival of a cab to take them home.

"No, _you_ shut up." John gestured to the house behind where the police were still carrying out their investigation. "That was our chance to help Greg and Matthew, Sherlock, and you blew it because you couldn't resist being a smart-arse."

"You don't suppose the victim's being a drinker is relevant when he was _drowned in a sink full of wine?"_ Sherlock retorted. "If Peters would like to tell me how I can solve this crime without deducing anything unsavoury about the victim's private life, he's more than welcome to."

"Well, if it's any comfort," said a voice behind them, "I've just got Merivale to stand Peters down for putting your DNA all over a crime scene, Sherlock."

The both turned. Anderson had followed them out and stood a few feet away. He was still in his protective suit, though he'd pulled down the hood and taken off the shoe covers.

Sherlock was just then wholly absorbed in finding a bloodless spot on his tissue, and said nothing.

"And Gifford's on her way in," Anderson continued. "She's better at this than I am." He took a few steps closer and glanced over his shoulder, as if worried about being overheard.

"That's very comforting," Sherlock said dryly.

"I've heard they've arrested Lestrade's son for the murder of the girl," Anderson ventured.

"Not arrested," John said, seeing that Sherlock wasn't going to answer. "At least, not yet. But it's not looking good. He was the last person to see her alive." He wondered briefly how Molly was getting on with Celeste's post-mortem, and glanced briefly at his watch. It was getting late.

"Well, this surely puts a spanner in the works on that theory," Anderson said. "Did Matthew even _know_ Thompson?"

"I've no idea," John said. "I'm sure they'll ask him."

"And just what, exactly, is your interest in all of this?" Sherlock interrupted, icily polite.

"Not academic," Anderson said.

Sherlock snorted. "Oh, what a surprise."

"I consider Greg Lestrade a friend, if you really must know." Anderson glanced down at his shoes.

"A friend?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "I don't think he's ever mentioned you as one of his."

"No, but he wouldn't, would he?" Anderson said, suddenly eager. "When you faked your death, I nearly lost my job over it. But after he got back from his own suspension he put in a report to DCI Chambers, praising my past work and recommending they keep me on." He paused. "Do you get it? He thought it was my fault you killed yourself. He _told_ me that, just after it happened. And then he helped me anyway."

"And you want to repay the favour by helping convict his son of murder."

"Oh, don't be stupid, what reason could he possibly have for doing this?" Anderson screwed up his nose in disgust at the idea. "And that's the other thing. Greg's son, one of Greg's close colleagues. Fill in the blank. Whoever did this might come for _him_ next."

"The thought had occurred to me," Sherlock said shortly.

Anderson checked over his shoulder again. "You're going to have to work hard for Merivale to overlook this one," he said, dropping his voice. "I _told_ you to keep your mouth shut – just a second, Sherlock, before you get clever. You two got kicked out of this, but _I_ didn't. Everyone forgets the techs. We're not as visible as the detectives."

Sherlock shrugged. "So?"

"So don't you see? I can help you," Anderson said. "And don't pretend you don't get people to help you, and not just John or Greg. You were out interviewing this afternoon, weren't you? With Donovan and Jones."

"Oh, she's 'Donovan' now? I'm relieved to find your affair with Sally is over," Sherlock remarked. "I imagine her husband prefers it that way."

"Do you want my help or not, Holmes? Because I doubt you're going to be able to access crime scene details any other way."

Sherlock shut his eyes and exhaled. Beyond, at the end of the street, the headlights from a cab bounced into view.

"Baker Street," he finally said. "As soon as you can meet us there. _Don't_ text me. If anything ever comes of it, they may audit your phone."

Anderson nodded. "I've got to get back," he said as the cab pulled up at the kerb beside them. "Oh, and by the way, if anyone asks, I just abused both of you for contaminating my crime scene."


	6. At Odds With Morning

Hayley lay in the darkness, against the rise and fall of Jake's chest. Her knee-high stockings had slipped down and were digging into the back of her calves, and the waistline of her skirt had twisted around, but she'd taken neither of them off. Sometimes, she'd said to Jake just the week before, it was nicer to just lie there together.

"Do you know," she said at last, "I just realised. I don't even _know_ Matty."

Jake shifted slightly.

"Oh, no, I don't mean I think he did it," she corrected herself. "But I didn't even know he and Celeste were like that. I didn't think _he_ was like that."

"Like what?"

"Like this. Like you and me." She ran one of her fingertips across the buttons on Jake's shirt. "He's an artist," she murmured. "A writer. Got that book coming out next month. But I don't have a clue what goes on in his head. Deep thoughts, I suppose."

"I think some pretty deep thoughts go on in your own head," Jake said. But she shook her head, her blonde hair tickling at his mouth.

"Not like him," she said. "He's a genius."

"Do you mind?"

"Sorry?" She lifted her head, her dark eyes searching out his in the shadowy room. "Oh. No, I don't think so. I minded a bit when we were little. But like Mum says, you don't know what it's like to be in someone else's shoes. I sometimes don't think he _likes_ being as clever as he is."

The crunch of car tyres in the drive and the bounce of headlights in her bedroom window proclaimed that either Dad or Mel, or both of them, had just come home. Reluctantly, Hayley got up so that Jake could. He fumbled around the carpet next to the bed for his shoes and slipped them on, then crossed the room and opened the door. The light from the landing almost blinded Hayley for a second as she followed him out and down the stairs to where her father had just put his wallet and keys down on the kitchen table. Before either of them could speak, Matthew brushed past her and on up the staircase, two at a time, in a heavy, clumping tread.

"Let him go, Hayley," Melissa said, a little flatly. She'd just taken her shoes off and padded into the kitchen, where they could hear her fumbling to fill the kettle. "You can talk to him tomorrow morning, okay? He needs a good night's sleep."

Hayley let out a held breath. At least they'd brought him home with them. She had never had to spend the night in a cell, but she didn't have to use much imagination to conclude it would be horrible.

"Dad," she ventured, "Jake's just going now."

Lestrade, who had watched Matthew go upstairs without speaking, snapped to attention. "Oh," he said distractedly, looking at Jake as if he had only just recognised him. "Sorry. I had no idea you were still here…"

"Just heading off now, sir," Jake mumbled, embarrassed.

"Well… maybe you might want to hang around for a bit longer." Melissa had just reappeared in the kitchen doorway and Lestrade looked across at her, as if silently asking for her help. "There's been some news on the case. I guess it involves you, too. They released Matthew overnight because they found a new body and had to rush off to secure the crime scene," he said slowly.

"Another murder?" Hayley blurted out, looking between Jake and her father. "Well, that means Matthew didn't do it, right? Because he was with us, and then the police…"

Lestrade shook his head. "Just had a call from Alan Peters – he reckons it happened _before_ Celeste. One of ours, Jake. Bob Thompson."

"Thompson?" Jake blinked stupidly for a few seconds. "But that makes no sense – where's the link there, sir? I don't think Celeste Biondi's likely to have moved in the same circles as Bob Thompson."

"More's the point, I don't think Matthew ever met Thompson," Lestrade said wearily, sitting down on the sofa and putting his face in his hands for a second. "As far as I can see, the only person who knew both victims is me."

"Sir… are they… is the killer trying to get at you, then?" Jake glanced apprehensively at Hayley, who suddenly reached out and clutched at his hand. "Us?"

"Peters says it's too early to call that one." Lestrade exhaled. "But maybe. I'd ask Sherlock Holmes, but from the sounds of things, June Merivale just kicked him and John off the case."

* * *

It was an hour of waiting at 221B Baker Street before Sherlock and John heard the knock on the downstairs street door. Sherlock flew down the stairs to answer it and let in Anderson. He was now dressed in his ordinary clothes, and looking dishevelled but alert.

"And?" Sherlock demanded immediately, leading him up the stairs.

"And I don't think June Merivale was the right person to get offside," Anderson said, just as they reached the living-room door. "I wouldn't go anywhere near her for a couple of days. Give her time to cool off… John," he said pleasantly, as John stood up and held out his hand to greet him.

"Thanks for coming," John said politely, as if Anderson were a run-of-the-mill client who'd contacted them via his blog. "Tea? Coffee?"

"We don't have time for a tea party." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fingerprints?"

"All over everything, of course, and not just his own," Anderson replied. Not quite knowing where to sit, he remained standing near the doorway, clasping one elbow awkwardly with the other hand. "But you'd expect that, even if he'd just had visitors over recently. They're going to be run, but I don't think we'll get much use out of them."

"What about the wine?"

"There were two wine boxes in the fridge and one in the bin. Two were empty, and one was half-full."

"No prints on those, I suppose," Sherlock sighed.

"No. Now apparently, Thompson's got two young boys, eleven and nine years old -"

"Yes." Sherlock went into the kitchen and fumbled through the cutlery on the sink before locating the plug and putting it in. Then he twisted the right-hand tap on. "The photographs of them on the front hall stand have expensive frames, but are at least six months old," he said over his shoulder. "They don't live there, and he may have only seen them sporadically. And you didn't bother interviewing the ex-wife, I suppose."

"It's not my job to interview anybody," Anderson reminded him. "But I did see her with one of Merivale's constables before I left… Matheson, I think it was. Anyway, it'll take a couple of days at least to run the fingerprints, and they probably won't find anything significant about them. If I was going to go and drown someone in a sink, I'd use gloves."

"You'd be a bit stupid not to," John put in.

"Quite," Sherlock agreed, twisting the tap off and turning around. "This was a very pre-meditated crime. Anderson, lie down on the floor."

Anderson blinked. "Sorry, _what?"_

"You heard me perfectly. I need to recreate the crime scene as accurately as possible to get a good idea of exactly what happened when Thompson was murdered. John, give me a hand." With John's help, Sherlock dragged the kitchen table out, creating floorspace near the sink. "If we imagine this is Thompson's kitchen, with the window and sink in approximately the same place, Thompson was found, where?"

Anderson pointed to a spot on the floor near the stove. Sherlock looked impassively at him; with a sigh, he pulled up his trouser cuffs and dropped down onto the floor. "Why am I doing this?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably so that he was slumped against the cupboard doors.

"Stop talking," Sherlock said. "You're supposed to be dead. And your legs are all wrong."

"No, _his_ legs were all wrong. I can't recreate a broken leg," Anderson protested, tucking one foot under himself in as close proximity as he could manage. "Is this honestly helping you, or are you just doing it for fun?"

"A bit of both. No, left arm wider… like that. Now, what do you think, John?"

"His ex-wife said there was no sign of a forced entry," John commented. "So he must have let his killer in. They drowned him in the sink, then pulled him back and just kind of threw him on the floor, which is where his ex-wife found him. The fall is probably what broke his leg, but I didn't get a good enough look at it to say for certain."

"He had a mild blow to the back of the head, like he hit it on something as he was thrown down. But he was probably dead or close to it at the time," Anderson said from the floor. "I found blood and a few hairs on the counter behind him. Can I get up now?"

"No," Sherlock said, dropping down on his haunches beside him. "I'm still looking."

"There's something I really don't understand," Anderson went on, staying obligingly in the position Sherlock had put him. "And that's how whoever killed Thompson managed to actually _do_ it. You'd fight with everything you had not to go out like that. Yes, he was out of shape, but still reasonably young and in good enough health. But there was almost no sign of a struggle."

John frowned. "'Almost' no?"

"His fingernails had been recently broken," Sherlock explained briefly, getting up and stepping over to the sink. He patted the stainless steel lightly with his fingertips. "Okay, Anderson, stand over here," he said.

Anderson opened one eye, then both. He sat up and then got to his feet, looking justifiably suspicious. "Why?"

"I want to demonstrate something."

Hesitantly, Anderson took two steps toward the sink.

"For God's sake," Sherlock huffed. "I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to demonstrate just how easy it is to shove someone face-down into a filled sink without having to wrestle them into submission. Observe."

In one fluid movement, Sherlock kicked Anderson's legs out wide from underneath him; at the same time he grasped him by the hair and shoved him face-down into the filled sink.

" _Jesus_ , Sherlock, let him go!" John exclaimed.

"Oh, relax, he's fine," Sherlock said, loosening his hold on Anderson's hair. The drenched man flailed for a grip on the kitchen counter, then slid down onto the floor beside, pushing his sopping hair out of his eyes. "You saw it, though. Kicking his legs backwards and pushing his head down immersed his mouth and nose immediately. His hands were preoccupied in keeping himself upright – he never attempted to defend himself against me. The sudden shock caused him to gasp while his head was under. Very easy."

"You could have just _told_ us that," John remarked, pulling a dish towel off the oven rack and handing it to Anderson, still spluttering on the floor.

"I know," Sherlock said. "But demonstrating it made more of an impression. And was more fun."

"You nearly killed me," Anderson gasped.

"No." Sherlock looked down at him almost playfully for a second. "I can assure you that I don't _nearly_ kill people. Hardly a pleasant experience, but then, we _are_ talking about a murder technique. A few more seconds with your face underwater, and you might be in a different predicament."

John rolled his eyes, but any reprimand that might have come Sherlock's way was interrupted by the trill of his phone ringing. He pulled it out of his pocket and read the incoming caller ID. Molly.

"Excuse me," he muttered, "I have to take this." He wandered up the hallway and through the open door to Sherlock's bedroom, sitting down on the bed as he answered. "Hello?"

"All finished." Molly sounded weary. "For now, anyway."

"Okay," he said. "I'm leaving Sherlock's sort of… now…" He glanced at his watch. "Might make it home before you do, depending on the cab service. And it was the fall that killed her?"

She hesitated for a second. "Yes," she finally said. "She… it wasn't just her face that was all bashed in. When we tried to move her, she…"

"I get the idea." Celeste had looked almost graceful as she lay in the grass at the crime scene, but John had good reason to know that fall victims sometimes literally fell apart when first responders tried to move them onto a stretcher or a trolley. "What about the… sexual activity that Anderson picked up on?"

"I can't tell you if she said 'yes' or not," Molly said. "But there are no signs on her of force or violence. No defensive scratches or bruising anywhere I could see, and nothing came up under her fingernails."

He blinked. "Nothing at all?" he repeated. "I would have thought that whoever killed her would have needed to use force to get her up on the roof to begin with. How the hell would they have managed otherwise?"

"I think I know the answer to that," she said. "Analysis of her stomach contents showed that she'd drank enough rum to get her drunk – maybe really drunk - if she'd lived long enough for it to have all hit her bloodstream. And it was spiked with enough Zopiclone that it might have killed her, if the fall hadn't."

* * *

It was a longstanding lover's quarrel between Greg Lestrade and his fiancée: he did not, ever, _snore._ But as she gently coaxed him awake, he was just in time to hear himself for a second or two.

 _Christ,_ he thought foggily. _And she still wants to sleep next to me for the rest of her life?_

"Greg?" she said. "Seven o'clock, my love. Up you get."

This time he opened his eyes, staring blankly out through the gauzy curtains of the north window for a few seconds. All was gloomy outside. Rain pattered on the roof above and dripped in heavy globs off the eaves. "Oh, hell," he muttered, rolling over and then forcing himself to sit up. "You know, for a second I was hoping what happened yesterday was going to turn out to be a nightmare."

"No such luck, I'm afraid." Melissa snaked her arm around his waist and planted a kiss on his back. "Should I come in with you again?" she asked gently.

He smiled and turned to her. "You'd better," he said. "I don't think either of us are going to make it through this without you."

"You'd both be fine without my help, I'm sure." She ran her finger lightly down his nose, then gave it a quick kiss. "I'm going for a shower – I'll make it quick."

"You _never_ make it quick," he griped at her.

"I think you might be impressed with me this time," she said as she shut the _en suite_ door behind herself. "You wake up Matthew and get all that organised."

"Breakfast?"

"Let's get something on the way," she said, her voice a little muffled as she pulled her nightie over her head. "I'm afraid I'm not in the mood for uninspiring toast this morning."

He smiled and got up, stifling a yawn into his hand and shuffling across to the bedroom door. There was nobody on the landing, but he could hear Hayley singing softly to herself as she made coffee in the downstairs kitchen. A draught of warm damp air and the scent of shampoo from the open bathroom door betrayed that she'd already been in, half an hour earlier than usual. Matthew's bedroom door was closed, and he crossed the hall and knocked on it.

"Matthew?" he ventured. "Up and at 'em. Seven o'clock."

He hadn't expected a salutation straight away, since one of Matthew's talents included being able to sleep for days on end if he was allowed to. But the silence from the other side of the door was nearly tangible. He knocked again, more loudly this time.

No answer. Hesitantly, he twisted the door handle and opened the door a crack, then wider as more of the room came into view. He found himself looking at Matthew's neatly made bed.

Not too much of a surprise. Since the age of seven, Matthew had done two things immediately on waking – made his bed and brushed his teeth, in that order. Lestrade clattered down the stairs to where Hayley was now sitting at the kitchen table, dressed for work and nursing her coffee.

"Where's your brother?" he asked her.

She raised her eyebrows and looked around, as if she expected to find him hiding behind the furniture. "I don't know," she said. "In his room, isn't he…?"


	7. As Two Spent Swimmers

Mornings in the Watson household were usually chaotic, and most of the chaos came from Charlie. She had recently decided that she wanted to hold her own spoon and feed herself, a situation that usually ended up with more food on her than _in_ her.

"Charlotte, if you could possibly aim _some_ of that porridge for your mouth, I'd be very grateful," John muttered, supervising the process with many an inward groan. So far it seemed likely that he was going to have to wash cereal out of her hair.

"Um!" she said jubilantly, spitting up a glob of lukewarm porridge down her chin.

John smiled, inwardly reproaching himself for being so grumpy with the best thing that had ever happened to him. "Oh, well," he said mildly, dabbing at her face with a flannel. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, at least – "

"NO! MUMMY!"

John didn't need to turn around to realise that Molly had just appeared in the kitchen doorway, half-dressed for work and searching out her first cup of coffee for the day. Charlie flung her arms above her head, upsetting the bowl of porridge and flicking the gooey spoon onto the floor. "Mummy!" she shrieked. "No!"

Charlie already knew five 'words': _Mummy, Daddy, No, Um,_ and _Ba_ , which could apparently mean anything from "oh, look, something interesting", to "bring me that toy immediately!"

"Oh, Charlie," Molly cooed, instantly melting.

John put his head in his hands for a second. This happened every single one of Molly's work-days. Charlie would see Molly in the process of getting ready to leave the house, knew that meant she was probably not going to be home for hours, and act like this was the end of the world. Her heartbroken tears would last until five minutes after Molly left, whereupon she apparently forgot her mother existed until she returned to her line of sight.

"Mummy has to go to work, Charlie-bear," Molly explained, letting Charlie blow sticky, porridge-y kisses all over her face and wipe grubby hands on her blouse. "I'll be home soon. You're going to spend the day with Daddy, won't that be fun?"

Before John could point out that it wasn't going to be much fun for either of them until Charlie calmed down, his mobile phone rang from the nearby kitchen counter. Frowning at the early hour of the call, he got up to it.

"Sherlock," he said, wandering into the front room so he could hear him better while Molly slipped into the seat he'd vacated and started smothering Charlie with kisses. "Not _another_ murder?"

"Lestrade called," Sherlock said without any other kind of greeting. "Matthew's gone missing."

John took a second to register what he'd just heard. "Sorry," he said. "He's what?"

"Run away, judging from the items missing from his room and the absence of any signs of a second person on the scene."

"Jesus, what's Merivale going to say?"

"Merivale's opinion of Matthew is not my concern right now. Lestrade asked me to… see about matters."

"I'll come over -"

"No, you won't," Sherlock said inexorably. "We need Molly there for Thompson's autopsy this morning. How is Harry?"

John blinked and took a step back. "Still off the sauce," he replied immediately. "But you're right, we couldn't ask her to babysit today."

Involuntarily, he put one hand to his mouth and swiped at it nervously. _How is Harry?_

Years before, he and Sherlock had worked out a series of codes and cues to use in case of emergencies. Since Sherlock couldn't care less what Harry Watson did on a daily basis, but it was a plausible question for a stranger to overhear, _how is Harry_ had become the code for _I think I'm being observed._  Any reference to "sauce", whether Harry was on or of it, was a signal that John copied and would not pursue it further.

Sherlock had to work alone this time.

"Get onto school and university syllabi today, John," Sherlock was saying down the line, jolting John back to the conversation at hand. _Syllabi._ Only Sherlock, and of course Mycroft, would come up with _syllabi_ and not just fumble over _syllabuses._ "Find out if there are courses that teach both _Macbeth_ and _Richard III_. I also need to know if those plays are currently running anywhere in London and if not, the last time they were."

"Okay." John tried not to grimace.

"Oh, also," Sherlock said. "Vanessa Thompson has agreed to be interviewed. I'm sending her over to you this morning."

* * *

When Lestrade had been forced to call around friends, family and colleagues that morning to confess that Matthew had got away from a room six feet away from his own, he'd expected nothing but a series of attacks on his parenting skills. And true, once Mark and Julie had turned up at the house, Mark had asked a few barbed questions about how exactly Matthew was able to leave without being noticed. But then he and Julie had left in Julie's car to conduct a search among several of Matthew's acquaintances, leaving Melissa and Hayley to do the rounds of the Lestrade family – primarily, Pam.

After a quick call to Donovan, Lestrade went to the office instead, where he found most of the usual suspects – Donovan, Halloran, Jones, Castelli, Patel, Murtagh, Dyer. Only this time, they were there without the sign-off from higher command.

There was a strange, chastened silence over the little crowd clustered around Donovan's desk as he came into the room and put his wallet and phone on the first flat surface available to him. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. About twenty minutes to nine. Only twenty minutes or so before Merivale had every likelihood of calling him and demanding to know why he hadn't brought Matthew back into the station for further questioning.

He opened his mouth to begin a briefing – starting, of necessity, with news of the murder of Bob Thompson. Then he shut his mouth again. Nothing audible had just come out of it.

Nothing audible emerged on his second or third attempts, either.

"Sir," Donovan said at last. "I've just been briefing everyone on the background to the situation, and brought us up to the morning's events. You can proceed with your orders from here."

He nodded to her, exhaling in relief. _They know what happened. You don't have to explain yourself to them._

"Good," he heard himself say hoarsely, running his hand over his unshaven jaw. "Thanks. Um… okay."

_Give an order. They want you to give an order._

The only problem was that Lestrade couldn't think of any orders to give. Donovan exchanged a look with Dyer.

"Okay," she said uncertainly. "Do you want me to – "

"Homeless shelters," he made himself say over the top of her. "Soup kitchens. Anywhere that… anywhere that homeless people would congregate, especially in wet weather. He hasn't touched his bank account for a couple of days. I don't know how much money he has on him right now, but it can't be much."

"And what about Sherlock Holmes, sir?" Dyer asked.

A warm flood of gratitude hit Lestrade as he realised, as if for the first time, that he had Sherlock Holmes in his corner. "He's on it," he said.

"I reckon he'll probably find him before anyone else, sir."

"Yeah, I hope so. Um. So Donovan, if you and Jones could try the shelter on the Malverton Road… it's the closest to our place. Work your way outwards…"

She nodded, and Lestrade sank into a nearby chair and quietly gave up. He could hear Donovan giving orders to Castelli and Patel to try Station Approach Road and Waterloo station, and Murtagh volunteering to do a bit of digging into CCTV surveillance close to the Lestrade residence. Dyer was already on the phone to one of the major cab companies, trying to ascertain whether any of their drivers had picked up a boy of Matthew's description between midnight and seven that morning…

"Greg?"

Lestrade turned to see Anderson standing in the hall doorway. He was still wearing his lab coat, so it was obvious that he'd just come up from one of the forensic labs.

"Anderson," he returned flatly, standing up and going to him. "How can I help?"

"I'm still running the results from Thompson's crime scene," Anderson said, just as if nothing odd had transpired since Thompson's murder. "No fingerprint matches, except for his own… but that's to be expected. The unidentified ones are probably those of his wife and children."

Lestrade nodded. "Okay. Anything else?"

"Actually, there is," Anderson said, lowering his voice, though he didn't seem in any great hurry to begin. "How certain are you that Matthew is innocent?" he finally asked.

Lestrade shot him a look could have flash-frozen a cup of coffee. " _Certain_ ," he said.

Anderson's gaze strayed behind Lestrade for a few seconds. "Certain enough to get this out of the way, before Merivale gets the same idea?"

Lestrade blinked, looking at the small glass cylinder and cotton swab Anderson had just put into his hand. "What's this?"

"It's a DNA test."

"No." Lestrade gave it back to him. "If you want my permission to rifle Matthew's room for samples, the answer is _no_ , Anderson. Matthew's underage and he's missing. He can't consent to a DNA test in his absence. Show me a court order and we'll talk."

Anderson shook his head. "I didn't mean him. I meant _you_. Biological parents share enough DNA with their children that any partial matches will come up. If they don't, it's almost one hundred percent proof that Matthew was never in Thompson's kitchen. Were _you_ ever at Thompson's house?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Not for a couple of years, anyway. But Celeste – "

"We know it was the same killer, don't we?"

Lestrade took the DNA kit back, crinkling the clear plastic bag between his fingertips and watching the fluorescent light above filter through it. "How long will it take to get a result?" he finally asked.

Anderson checked his watch. "A few hours, if I work at it," he said. "I can have it ready for you by the end of the day. The blood test will probably come back earlier than the mouth swab."

"And I suppose you're not going to want to do that here," Lestrade sighed, turning back to his team and holding up his hand to get Donovan's attention. "Stepping out for a couple of minutes," he said to her.

Donovan glanced at Anderson and then back at Lestrade, frowning. "Sir?"

"I'll be right back. You and Jones do what you have to do."

If Donovan made any response, Lestrade didn't hear it. He followed Anderson into the lift, head down. As he heard, rather than saw, the doors shut behind them, he was struck by the novelty of it: he'd just fled from his own team.

* * *

The rain, which had been only a fine mist up until now, started to come down in torrents as Sherlock made his way up North Gower Street toward Euston Square station. Homeless Network. Right every time. A particularly diligent and reliable Network member, Sam Nolan, had just texted that he'd sighted a kid matching the photograph Sherlock had sent him, wandering up and down the Jubilee line platform and looking completely at sea. He'd promised to keep Matthew where he was – by force, if he had to – until "Mr. Holmes" arrived to check the kid's identity for himself.

One problem, though, was the two plain-clothes officers posted in front of the Seven-Eleven store a few doors down. They were obviously on his track, having followed him not-so-subtly from Baker Street earlier that morning. He had no idea whether Merivale now knew that her prime suspect was on the run, but it seemed unlikely that anyone else would have him followed. The conversation with Anderson last night must have looked suspicious – or else the flat had been watched even then.

He stopped and lit a cigarette, unsure of what to do next, until he was finally saved by the sight of two of the Network – names escaped him just then – smoking near the doorstep of one of the flats across the street. He crossed the road to them.

"Mr. Holmes," one said cheerfully. He was a gap-toothed young man whose recreational habits made his twenty-four years look like forty-four. "All out, sorry."

"I'm not buying today." Sherlock pulled out his wallet. "But I have a job for you. Here's fifty. There's fifty more in it for you if you do it well. Behind me near the Seven-Eleven are two plain-clothes police officers. I need you to remove them."

Gap-tooth, as Sherlock mentally designated him, smiled at his companion, an unshaven man wearing his cap askew. "Reckon that can be done," he said.

"Good. Go and do it."

Sherlock, putting away his wallet, watched as the two of them made their way up the street in the direction of the officers, in step with one another and talking in low voices as they quickly made up a plan of action. It never failed to surprise him how eager the Network were to get up to these sort of gags, and Sherlock knew that it wasn't just the promise of a hundred pounds that did it. Everyone, he reflected to himself, gets bored sometimes.

The two men were nearly abreast of the two officers when abruptly, Gap-tooth pulled something off the coat of the other man and bolted toward the Crown and Anchor as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Hey!" the other yelled. "Hey, he got my wallet!"

He took off in pursuit, running directly in front of a blue Mazda that screeched to a halt half an inch shy of hitting him. Both officers hurried over, but before they could reach him he was off again. Gap-tooth, weaving neatly around a couple pushing a pram, disappeared into Drummond Street.

Once all four of them had disappeared from sight, Sherlock slipped into Tolmer's Square. Passing quickly behind the parked cars glistening with rain, he took the most convoluted, under-cover path possible to the train station.

* * *

Forty minutes later, Vanessa Thompson arrived at the Watson residence. She was not just by herself, but had her two sons in tow. The eldest boy was very like his mother – dark haired, with a full brow and pointed chin. But the younger, hiding behind a fringe of brown hair lighter than his brother's, was so much like his late father that John had a sudden flash memory of the bug-eyed, purple-tongued corpse on the kitchen floor and took a step back in surprise.

"Hello." Vanessa spoke steadily, if a little wearily, putting her hands on the youngest boy's shoulder. John recognised her instantly as the crying woman at the crime scene. Tall, with a careworn face and still-lovely brown eyes framed in black kohl.

"Hi." John juggled Charlie in his arms and reached out to shake Vanessa's hand. It was icy, but her handshake was firm. "John Watson. Vanessa?"

"Yes. Uh, these are my children. Robbie and Dean."

John ushered the family inside and reached out to shut the door behind them. As he followed them through the front passage and into the kitchen, he noted that neither of the children were acting as if they'd just lost their father. They seemed a little timid, but dry-eyed and calm.

"Do you boys want something to drink?" he asked awkwardly, glancing at Vanessa as he received a polite little chorus of _no-thank-you._

Both spooked. And that was no surprise, John thought to himself. Their mother was clearly mentally elsewhere. By now, Charlie was struggling against him to be put down. He lowered her onto the floor.

"This is Charlie," he said, trying to elicit some sort of response from the family beyond the uncomfortable shuffling and nervous looks. "My daughter."

Charlie toddled over to Robbie, or tried to. She made it halfway across the living-room carpet before giving up and easing herself down a little too gracefully onto her well-padded behind.

Vanessa smiled wearily. "Dean used to do that," she said. "Not falling down, exactly. Just, had enough, _sitting_ down."

"Dr. Watson?" Robbie ventured. "Could we please take Charlie outside to play?"

John glanced at Vanessa helplessly for a second. He hadn't expected her to bring the boys in the first place, and the discussion he'd planned couldn't take place in front of them. "Uh… okay," he said. "Just let me put shoes on her. And maybe stay under cover… the grass is wet, and she doesn't walk properly yet."

Once Charlie had her shoes on, he watched Robbie and Dean take her outside and shut the connecting glass doors between them.

"You haven't told them yet," he said immediately. It was not a question.

"No," Vanessa said, dry-eyed. "What am I meant to say to them?"

Through the glass doors, they could both see Dean sit down cross-legged in front of Charlie. She pointed at something in the garden with the clear expectation that he or Robbie would immediately get it for her.

"Yeah," John said. "I can see that. I'm sorry we have to ask questions about this so soon."

"Oh, go ahead," she said. "We were getting a divorce, you know."

"Yes. But that doesn't mean you wanted him dead."

She raised one eyebrow. "I certainly didn't kill him, if that's what you're implying," she snapped.

"No, that's _not_ what I'm implying. But I do have to ask, do you know anyone who _would_ kill him?"

"No."

"No enemies, then?"

"No. He was a happy, sociable drunk."

"Sounds like someone I know." John shifted in his chair. "Vanessa," he continued, "do you know anyone who goes to Highgate Wood School?"

She blinked in surprise. "No," she said. "No, we live in Camberwell. Robbie's going to Stockwell Park. Does…" She stopped for a second. "Is that where Greg Lestrade's son goes?"

"You've heard about that?"

" _Everyone's_ heard about that," she said.

"Have you ever met Matthew Lestrade?"

"Not that I remember." She put her hand to her temple for a second, as if in pain. "Perhaps he was one of the kids running around at the staff Christmas party a few years ago, but I really wouldn't know. Why would _he_ want to kill Bob, anyway?"

For a few seconds, the only sounds were of Charlie ordering "Ba!" to the boys outside and shrieking in delight at the unexpected attention.

"Did you notice anything odd when you went to the house last night?" John continued, retrieving his notepad and pencil from one pocket and flicking through a few pages of scribbles before taking a new one. "I mean," he said apologetically, "I mean, before you… uh. Before you came into the kitchen."

"Oh, I don't know," Vanessa sighed, putting her hand to her forehead again. John frowned. _Severe headache?_ She didn't seem well, but that wasn't a surprise.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Didn't answer the door," she said, as if she hadn't heard his question. "I had a key, so I opened it and went in. Nothing in front… odd smell…" She shut her eyes. "I forget," she mumbled bleakly.

"Vanessa?" Alarmed, John reached across the table and gave her a short, sharp shake by one shoulder. Her head lolled forward a little, like a doll. "Vanessa, look at me… what's wrong?"

"Jus' tired," she slurred.

"Yeah, I'll bet." He tipped her chin up with one hand, gently lifting each eyelid with the other. "Did you take something before you got here, to help you sleep?"

Vanessa's response was non-committal. Before John could ask any more questions, he heard the glass sliding door open again. Robbie, wobbling slightly under Charlie's weight against his hip, crept in. Behind him, Dean was still hovering in the open doorway.

"Is Mum going to die?" Dean asked in a little voice.

"What? No," John snapped over his shoulder without thinking. "Of course not, why would you think something like that? Robbie, can you get my phone? On the counter." He waved vaguely at it, taking Vanessa's pulse with his other hand. A little sporadic, but strong enough. Robbie handed him the phone.

"Thanks," he said, dialling in 999. "Could you boys do me a big favour and wait out the front to show the ambulance which house they need to go to?"

"Can we take Charlie, too?"

"No, mate, she's too little." He looked down at her. She had just located Toby and was happily stroking his mottled fur, completely oblivious to the drama around her. "Don't leave the kerb, okay? Thanks. You've been a great help..."

The call dropped into emergency services, and he gave his full attention to the operator and his patient as the boys obediently filed out. Awkwardly pinning the phone between his ear and shoulder, he reached across the table and opened Vanessa's handbag.

She had made no attempt to hide the bottle of Zopiclone nestled between her wallet and phone.


	8. The Seeds of Time

A hot underground breeze, reeking of fuel, slapped Sherlock in the face as he made his way onto the train platform. At the far end he spotted Sam looming over another person who, for a few seconds, was obscured from sight. Then Sam turned and Sherlock saw Matthew shrunk up against the tiled wall of the overhead staircase, his overnight bag clutched to his chest like a shield.

"Obliged," Sherlock broke in, offering Sam a handshake with a banknote tucked between his fingers.

"'This who you were looking for?" Sam asked.

"Not your business." Sherlock dismissed him with a vague wave of his hand and turned to Matthew, who was watching all of this curiously. "Well," he said cheerfully. "You and I are currently standing under the watchful eye of about fourteen CCTV cameras. You _really_ don't get the point of this "running away" business, do you? Follow me. Keep up."

Matthew had lived in London for ten years and knew many of its streets and features, but he never forgot his walk through the streets with Sherlock Holmes that drizzly morning. Avoiding cabs and, Matthew supposed, avoiding CCTV wherever possible, Sherlock led him on the most convoluted route he'd ever seen, through lanes and up and down staircases and across squares and around buildings. Over an hour later, Sherlock finally stopped at the junction of Snow Hill and Cock Lane.

"There used to be a ghost in Cock Lane," Matthew ventured, a little out of breath from the long, brisk walk. "Hundreds of years ago."

"Really?" Sherlock drew something out of his pocket and glanced at Matthew over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Did it die?"

Before Matthew could respond, he turned to a doorway and put the key in the lock, shoving it forcefully with the ball of his hand a few times before the sticky door gave way and creaked open. He pulled the key out with the same degree of force.

"What is this place?" Matthew asked.

Sherlock reached out and flicked the light switch on the right side of the doorway, which threw a weak, greenish glow over the room in front of them. The whole apartment was little more than one room; in it was a modest single bed with an iron frame, well covered with blankets that smelled slightly of mothballs. It led into a kitchenette, newer and better put-together than the one at Baker Street. There was a microwave and kettle and a bar fridge that hummed in a businesslike way. The lintel was so low that Sherlock had to duck his head as he went into the kitchen. Beyond it was a closed door that Matthew imagined would probably lead to a bathroom.

"Bolt hole," Sherlock said abruptly, after such a long silence that Matthew took a second to work out what he was getting at. He'd just realised that at least part of what he thought was the smell of musty bedclothes was actually the rain-soaked smell of the clothes he was wearing.

"Is there anything to eat?" he asked hesitantly.

Sherlock frowned for a second, as if the idea that Matthew might need food had only just occurred to him. Then he cleared his throat. "Well, I suppose I could find something," he said distractedly, opening a cupboard that seemed to contain not much more than olive oil, salt and pepper. "If not, I'm sure you'll survive until your father –"

"No, please," Matthew suddenly begged. "If you tell him where I am, they're going to arrest me…"

"What makes you think he'd tell Merivale where you are?"

Matthew frowned. "Because he has to," he said. "It's the law."

Sherlock, hand still resting on the cupboard door, stopped and looked at Matthew in silence for a few seconds. "You think so?" he said thoughtfully. It had never occurred to Matthew that his father might disregard the law for his safety and wellbeing. "Well." He shut the cupboard door and turned to face him fully. "This puts me in an odd position. What exactly do you suggest I do with you?"

* * *

Molly's mobile phone rang four times before she finally picked up, which told John that Bob Thompson's autopsy had concluded and she was no longer in the morgue.

"Don't panic," he said immediately, without taking the trouble of saying hello. "Charlie and I are fine, but we're at the University hospital. Vanessa Thompson keeled over at the kitchen table."

"Oh, God," she blurted out. "Is she all right?"

"Yeah. I've just had a word with her doctor, who thinks she'll be fine. Gave her kids a bit of a fright." John, awkwardly shifting Charlie's weight on his hip, craned his neck slightly to look down the corridor, where Robbie and Dean Thompson were sitting in the waiting area, just out of earshot. He'd bought them each a packet of M&Ms from the vending machine in the lobby, and they were quietly eating them as if it were the last chocolate they were ever going to have in their lives. "Looks like I'm the grown-up on duty until their aunt arrives, though," he said. "Should only be half an hour or so. They don't know about Bob yet, and I'm not planning on being the one to tell them. How did… all that go?"

Molly hesitated for a few seconds. "I have to put this in the report that goes back to the police," she said. "But, well, you and Sherlock are still working on this, so I thought it was fair to tell you first."

"Tell me what?"

"Well, two things… the first is that I had a good look, and there was no wine residue in his lungs."

"… He didn't drown?"

"Oh, yes, he drowned… but it was just ordinary tap water, John," she said earnestly. "Which means that if Sherlock found the sink full of wine, the killer must have done that after Thompson was already dead."

It had crossed John's mind that Bob Thompson would otherwise have watched the person about to kill him pouring wine into the sink for no apparent reason. Even so, he'd not expected this one.

_But what's it mean?_

Leave that one for Sherlock to sort out… once he returned from finding Matthew, or whatever he was currently doing. Even Anderson, John reflected, had a much better chance of making sense of all this than he himself could.

"The other thing," Molly said carefully, "is that I couldn't find anything sinister in Thompson's bloodstream. His blood alcohol level was only 0.03. And definitely no Zopiclone or any benzodiazepine drugs."

John raised his eyebrows. "You sure?" he asked, then quickly backed up with, "Yes, I know, you're sure. Sorry. So he wasn't drugged? Just kind of… wrestled into place?"

"I think so," Molly said. "Someone had bashed him up a bit. Some of his hair at the back of the scalp had been pulled right out, and he had very recent bruising on his shins."

John thought back to Sherlock's "experiment" on Anderson in the kitchen at 221B, and wondered idly what Anderson's shins currently looked like.

"That's… interesting," he said, shifting Charlie again as she started to whine. "Vanessa Thompson was on Zopiclone… I found it in her bag. Her doctor thinks she hazed out due to a drug hangover from last night."

"… What are _you_ thinking, John?"

John let out a breath. "Not sure yet," he said thoughtfully. "But I'll let you know if I come up with anything useful. Sherlock's gone to ground, so I don't know when he'll be back."

* * *

Sherlock stood in the doorway of the tiny kitchen, deep in thought. In the end he'd relied on the Network again to deliver what he had specified as "food" to the Cock Lane bedsit, and fish and chips had shown up on the doorstep half an hour later. It was the most expensive fish and chips Sherlock had ever bought, since he'd parted with a pair of twenty-pound notes for it and was now running perilously low on available cash. To get any more he'd have to go to a cashpoint, and he was fairly sure his bank accounts were currently being monitored.

He'd imagined that retrieving Matthew would be as easy as grabbing him by the shoulder and shoving him into a cab, directing it back to his father's house. But what was the use in taking him back if he didn't want to be there? He'd just run away again.

He thought of Molly, in the midst of an eight-hour shift at Barts, just around the corner.

"If you're going to stay here," he finally said, "you're going to have to earn your keep."

Matthew looked up at him.

"You're the connection," Sherlock continued. "Between the two victims. Once I work out _why_ you're the connection, catching this killer will become a lot easier. I suggest you start by telling me everything you know about Thompson."

Matthew swallowed, swiping his hand over one cheek. "I don't know him," he finally said. "… Didn't know him, I mean. The only guy Dad's worked with that I've really known is Jake."

"You never met him?"

"I… don't know," Matthew said, shrugging. "What did he look like?"

Abruptly, Sherlock grabbed Matthew hard by the shoulder and whipped his phone screen directly into his line of sight.

"There," he said viciously. "That's what he looked like, dead on his kitchen floor. And Celeste? Oh, I've a photo of her here, too…" He flipped through several photographs. " _There_. That's what she looked like at the morgue yesterday, Matthew. That's what whoever killed her did to her. That's what _everyone thinks you are responsible for._ And if you don't want to go to prison for the rest of your life, if you have any interest in finding out who killed Celeste and Bob Thompson, I suggest that you _start helping me."_

Matthew gave a breathless little squawk, and Sherlock dropped his hand, watching in alarm as the boy covered his face with his hands and took another shuddering gasp, and then another.

Unbidden, John's voice entered his mind. A sound bite from a completely different case, a few years before: _Well done, Sherlock, you've managed to work her up into a panic attack._

"Your parents might indulge you in this sort of performance, Matthew, but I haven't the patience for it," he finally said, relaxing his tone a little. He lifted one hand, as if in comfort, then changed his mind. Instead he went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water from the tap, and handed it to Matthew, who grasped it with both hands and gulped it down in between hiccups.

"Sorry..."

"There's no time for crying and apologies," Sherlock said, inexorable. "Whoever our killer is, they aren't going to stop until they're caught, and I can't be certain who their next target is going to be. Your father thinks you're a genius. So _be_ a genius, and help me solve this case."

* * *

Finally, Vanessa Thompson's sister arrived at the hospital. She turned out to be a tall, angular woman, some years younger than her sister, who approached her nephews so awkwardly that John wondered when the last time she'd seen them was.

He wasn't wondering for too long, however. It gave him an opportunity to slip in and see Vanessa herself. He found her at the far end of the ward she'd been placed in, and John noticed gratefully that the only neighbouring bed seemed to be vacant for the time being. She was very pale, but he also noticed that the only machine attached to her was a standard hydration IV, the sort of thing doctors gave to people who arrived complaining of a paper cut. Couldn't hurt, rarely helped, but it made people feel like they were both seriously ill and rapidly getting better.

"Hi," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired."

"I'll bet. Your doctor told me that once you get in eight hours solid, you'll feel loads better." He paused. "Your sister's just got here," he offered. "Lisa. She's going to look after the boys for a few days, just while you get back on your feet."

Vanessa passed her hands in front of her eyes. "You must think I'm the worst person…"

John blinked. "No," he said. "No, I've known far worse people than you, I can tell you that. I think you got overwhelmed. I think you've never been on serious sedatives before and you were left to administer them on your own, and it got out of hand. Vanessa," he continued, lowering his voice, "I'm about to ask you a personal question. I need you to understand before I ask it that you don't have to answer it. But if you did, it would really, _really_ help the investigation of who killed Bob."

For a second, John saw in Vanessa the steely resolve of a detective's wife of twenty years. "Ask me," she said.

"What's the name of the doctor who prescribed Zopiclone for you?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said, waving one hand vaguely. "It was at the crime scene last night…"

"Yes." John nodded. "I had an idea that it might've been one working in conjunction with the police. You've never taken it before what happened last night?"

She shook her head.

"Well, I believe you. If you had, you wouldn't have mismanaged it like that." He took a deep breath, leaning with both hands against the rung of the end of the bed for a second. "The reason I'm asking," he said, "is because the girl who was killed – Celeste Biondi - she had a load of Zopiclone in her system when she fell from the roof."

Vanessa's lower jaw dropped. "You don't think _I_ killed her!"

"No, I don't think you've killed anybody. Like I said, you'd probably have never seen Zopiclone in your life before last night… after Celeste was already dead. But if I can track down who prescribed it for you… I might just be able to find where the dose came from that was given to Celeste."

She thought carefully for a few seconds. "I'm sorry." She put her hand up to her forehead. "I really can't remember."

"Well, what did the doctor look like?" John persisted patiently, though he had no idea in the world how he was going to track down one doctor in London by a physical description. "Man, woman? How old?"

"A… well, he was a man," she faltered. "Short dark hair, with a bit of grey in it. He wore glasses – square-rimmed ones, I think."

John nodded, taking in this incredibly vague and unhelpful description in silence for a few seconds. "Okay," he said, standing up straight. "Thank you, Vanessa – that was helpful. Get some rest, okay?"

She nodded obediently, even though John wasn't, strictly speaking, her own doctor. He went back out into the corridor, where he could see Lisa and the boys congregating around the vending machine again. Checking his watch, he saw that it had just gone eleven. He was contemplating telling Lisa to try the cafeteria on the ground floor when the trill of his phone interrupted his thoughts. He answered it without checking the caller ID first, hoping it was Sherlock or, at a pinch, Greg, with news that Matthew had been found safe.

"John?"

No such luck. It was an odd thing, really; Philip Anderson's role in life seemed to be to function as the man you get when you're in need of someone else.

"Anderson. Just the man I wanted to speak to," he said, grimly cheerful.

Down the line, Anderson hesitated. "Really?"

 _Has he ever been the person someone really wants to speak to? Ever?_ "Really," John said. "You first, though. News on the case?"

"Matthew had fingerprints taken when he was questioned yesterday," Anderson said. "And while I haven't analysed _every_ fingerprint in Thompson's house, none of the ones I've run through the system for a match have been even close to Matthew's. Things are looking up."

John wondered briefly if things were "looking up" for Anderson, who now had to report that the crime scene had turned up bugger-all in the way of hard evidence. "Does Greg know?" he asked.

"Yes, I just called him. I don't know where he was… out looking, I suppose. And Sherlock isn't answering his phone."

"Of course he isn't," John said, a little severely. "He's on business. Let him surface when he's done with… that part of things." He spoke carefully. It had just occurred to him that his own phone might be tapped.

Anderson coughed.

"Okay," John said after a short silence. "So I'm trying to track down the doctor who treated Vanessa Thompson at the crime scene last night. Do you know who it was?"

"Yes, actually. I have the report right here…" There were a few shuffling sounds down the line as Anderson was evidently going through his paperwork. "Looks like it was Roland Harper..."

"Who's he when he's at home?"

"A GP with his own rooms in Slade Street. We have a pool of peripheral medical staff on call for this sort of situation. One day a month. It was just his turn this time."

John ruminated. _Slade Street. I wonder…_

"Thanks," he said. "You wouldn't happen to know if he's working this afternoon, would you?"

"No idea, I'm afraid. Can I help?"

"Just keep digging with fingerprints and things on your end. I'll let you know what I find out. Talk soon."

He hung up without any further ado, returning to his phone home screen and thumbing the Google app. Unlike Sherlock, for whom his phone functioned as an extra limb, John hated researching on a tiny touch-screen, but it was the best he could manage just then. After a few false hits, he found the phone number for Dr. Roland Harper, with rooms listed at 247 Slade Street.

Harper was the only doctor who worked those rooms. Even given a late hour at a crime scene, John knew he'd probably not choose to close his own surgery that afternoon if he could avoid it.

He also knew that calling ahead would be a waste of time.

"Okay," he said to Charlie. "Guess what we're doing now? I'm going to need to put you in that car seat you hate so much. And for a change, I really don't mind if you cry about it."


	9. Too Cold For Hell

Charlie obliging started to whimper as soon as she understood that she was being put into her much-hated car seat. By the time John parked outside the Slade Street practice twenty-five minutes later she was bawling, tears cascading down her chubby cheeks in a way that racked her father with guilt.

"I'll make it up to you, Charlie, promise," he muttered as he freed her from the car seat. It had started to drizzle again, which wasn't helping things. He shut the car door with his knee, fumbling for the keyless lock. "Won't be long here..."

The waiting room wasn't as crowded as John had expected it to be, containing only a handful of people. A handful of people, nonetheless, who probably had set appointments and real illnesses. Behind the counter sat a flustered-looking secretary, with purple-painted nails and fluffy brown hair escaping from where she'd pinned it severely behind her ears.

"Hi," he said to her over Charlie's wails, affecting to look as frazzled and incompetent as possible. "My name's John Watson… I've never been here before, I mean, I haven't got an appointment or anything, but I was wondering – "

She shook her head. "Sorry," she said, though she really didn't sound sorry at all. "Dr. Harper can only be seen by appointment. There's a clinic on the Claverton Road that takes walk-ins…"

"Please," John said, hoisting Charlie on one hip and almost proud of her when she continued to wail on cue. "Look, I've just gone to change her nappy and she's all over nappy-rash. She's bleeding. I can't even put her in the bath. My wife's going to kill me."

He waited. Now he had only to find out whether Dr. Harper, or his secretary at least, was the sort of person who would publicly turn away an apparently helpless father and a baby screaming in pain. It had been a long time since John had worked in general practice, but he remembered distinctly the unofficial rule most offices had – babies went into the express lane.

The woman stood up, just as the phone in front of her began to ring. Exasperated, she picked it up, listening for a second.

"Okay," she said into the receiver. "I have a walk-in here, a John Watson with a baby suffering severe nappy rash… how old did you say she was?" she asked John, cupping the receiver for a moment.

"Thirteen months."

"Thirteen months," she relayed, then listened for a few more seconds. "Yes. Right away…" She hung up the line and looked over the counter at John. "You can go in," she said wearily. "We'll figure out the paperwork when you come out."

As he went, John cast her a sympathetic look. After all, she was the one who now had to field a room full of pissed off patients who had been moved back in the queue.

Dr. Harper was, roughly, everything that Vanessa Thompson had claimed he was – greying, early forties, square-rimmed glasses. John silently conceded that he couldn't have expected a more exact description of such a completely unmemorable person.

"Oh, dear," Harper said sympathetically as John brought Charlie in. "Who's this unhappy little girl, then?"

"Charlie," John managed to get in over the noise. "Charlotte."

"Nappy rash is no fun, is it, Charlie?" Dr. Harper gestured to the high, deep-padded examination table. "Come on, let's have a look at you, then…"

John steeled himself, but he continued in his role as hapless parent until Harper had taken Charlie's nappy off to view the extent of the damage.

He looked over sharply at John, eyes full of accusation. "Nappy rash, you said?"

"Yeah, I lied about that," John said unrepentantly, struggling to keep Charlie still enough to dress her again. "Sorry. You've probably not heard of me, but you might have heard of my colleague, Sherlock Holmes. We're currently investigating a murder. You were called out by the Met to attend the crime scene last night."

"Yes," Harper said warily.

"A woman found the body of her soon-to-be-ex-husband in his kitchen," John went on, pulling a milk biscuit out of Charlie's pink My Little Pony backpack and trying to distract her with it. "She'd had a nasty shock, all right. You prescribed Zopiclone for her. She's now in hospital."

Harper raised his eyebrows and, for a second, looked alarmed. "I prescribed it to her well within guidelines…"

"Well, yes," John conceded. "Very likely you did. What I'm wondering about is that you prescribed it at all. Now look, you're not the only doctor in the room. You and I about the same age, and we probably both read medicine and took prac in the United Kingdom. I've never prescribed Zopiclone in my life, and I was dealing almost wholly with the armed forces at one point. You don't get prescription-happy on drugs like that."

Dr. Harper pursed his lips defensively. "All right," he said. "What exactly would _you_ have given her?"

"Me? A sugar pill, and maybe a box of tissues."

Over his years of working with Sherlock, John had given lots of distressed clients, from Lucy Harrison to Henry Knight, "something to help you sleep". In nine out of ten cases it had been a sugar pill, though once or twice he'd been caught out and had to settle for paracetamol. Not one client had ever commented on the unusual flavour of the medication he handed out, and in most cases, they'd even claimed to have had a great night's sleep after.

"A woman who's just found the battered corpse of the man she had two kids with is going to get a rotten night's sleep, no matter what," he went on, running his fingers over Charlie's hair as she hiccupped over her biscuit. "She doesn't need sedatives. She needs someone to call a relative or friend and get her and the kids a safe place to sleep for the night. Anyway," he continued, realising this line of discussion wasn't making a friend of Roland Harper. "Have you ever prescribed Zopiclone for any patient by the name of Biondi?"

"You know I can't answer that," Harper returned, setting his mouth in a hard line. "I'm surprised you had the nerve to ask me something like that."

"So am I, really, but right now I'm desperate enough to give it a try. The killer's still at large, you know. He's killed two people already, and we think he'll try again."

"He?"

John blinked. "Are you telling me you've prescribed Zopiclone to a _woman_ with the surname of Biondi?"

"I'm not telling you anything. What good would that do you, anyhow? There are hundreds of GPs in London, who've written out who-knows-how-many prescriptions for Zopiclone in the past few weeks."

"True," John conceded. It was on the tip of his tongue to say _but none of those GPs are associated with Scotland Yard,_ but he wisely decided to keep that point close to his chest. Harper stood up and reached out for the door to show his patient out.

"If you go now, we'll say no more about this, Dr. Watson," he said. "I don't enjoy being lied to."

"Yeah, well, I don't enjoy watching friends suffer because of a murderous criminal." John stood up, resigned, and hauled Charlie up from the examination table. "You can understand that I had to give it a try."

"I do. It didn't work. Make an appointment next time, if your daughter actually is sick." Harper went back to his desk and reached out to pick up the phone. Just as John was about to shut the door behind himself, he heard Harper call him softly. He paused, one hand resting on the doorknob.

"There's one thing, before you go," Harper said. "You know I can't tell you if someone's my patient. But I think I can tell you if someone _isn't_. If it helps your investigation, I've never had a patient by the name of Biondi."

"What about…" John searched around in his memory for the surname of the kids Sherlock had interviewed, along with Donovan and the other female officer he knew as _the blonde one._ "What about by the name of 'Trent'?"

Harper's eyes narrowed. "No patients by that name, either," he said. "No more questions."

Well, John reflected to himself as he struggled to clip Charlie back into her car seat. Process of elimination, but it was a start. The drugs given to Celeste hadn't come from Vanessa Thompson, the Trent kids or anyone in Celeste's immediate family.

Only a few million suspects to sift through, now. He was distracted from his thoughts when his phone rang, resulting in a mad hunt through his pockets before he located it. "Yeah?" he said, hoping to God it was Sherlock.

"John."

Anderson again.

"Hi." John kneaded his forehead with the tips of two fingers. "How can I help?"

"There's something I think you should see… I can't get hold of Sherlock, and I can't explain it to over the phone. Could you come to headquarters?"

John glanced at his watch. "Yeah," he said, "if you can give me half an hour."

"Text me when you're here and I'll let you in."

* * *

Melissa had coasted the car to a halt directly in the no-stopping zone outside of New Scotland Yard. Lestrade, jacket glistening with rain, didn't bother to point it out to her as he got in and slammed the door after himself. He took off the jacket and tossed it into the back seat. No Hayley.

"So…?" he demanded.

"So Pamela is _off the wedding list,"_ she seethed, flicking on the indicator with as much vim as if she were slapping her future sister-in-law across the face.

He stared at her. "What? What happened?"

"I'm afraid we had words."

"Oh, my God –"

"No, Greg. I know you like to keep the peace, but she had _no right_ to say what she did. I'll summarise and tell you it was neither pleasant nor fair to you." She paused, checking her shoulder for oncoming traffic as she merged lanes. "Actually, I'm not so sure your mother and I are on speaking terms anymore, either."

He heaved a sigh. Well, that was nothing new. Most of the time _he_ wasn't on speaking terms with his opinionated, sharp-tongued mother. A favourite with Julie, she had never approved of the divorce, let alone his new relationship and engagement. She had a habit of referring to Melissa as "Melinda", "Melanie" or, when she was really displeased, _"that girl"_ and _"her"._

"So Pam hasn't heard from Matthew?" he tried again.

She reached out and rubbed his shoulder. "Darling," she said gently. "Don't you think that that would have been the first thing I'd told you, if she had? No sign of him. I'm so sorry. You've not heard from Sherlock...?"

"No." He blinked twice in rapid succession and glanced at the back seat again. "Where's Hayley?"

"At the museum – she thinks Matthew might be holed up there in the reading room. I'd have never thought of that. I dropped her off at the station."

"Wait, you dropped her off at the station?" he demanded, voice pitched high with sudden anxiety. "On her own?"

Melissa blinked. "Yes," she said.

"Jesus Christ, Mel! Are you out of your bloody mind? There is a _serial killer_ running around the place targeting my family and my team, and you left her to look for her brother _on her own?"_

"I know you're upset," she said through gritted teeth, clutching the steering wheel with white knuckles. "So I am choosing to give you exactly one free pass on your tone of voice. Greg, she's _eighteen._ Old enough to be responsible for herself-"

"She isn't responsible enough to avoid being murdered!"

"You really think someone's going to target Hayley? Or are you just being paranoid because you love her?"

Lestrade swallowed heavily. "I don't know," he said, taking a deep, slightly shaky breath. His fingers tweaked the crook of his elbow where, under his jacket, he had a sticking plaster over the needle mark Anderson's blood test had left in its wake. "Celeste could have been… well, it could have been _anyone_ who killed Celeste. But Thompson… I'm the one who knew both victims. Not Matthew. I don't think he could have picked Thompson out of a photograph. What if this is someone after me? My kids? You?"

Melissa was silent for a few seconds. "Funny you should say that," she said. "It crossed my mind that it could be related to one of my clients, even though I didn't really know either of the victims. But I ran a few checks. All of the lovely psychopaths I've been working with since starting my PhD are present and accounted for. I also checked Broadmoor's records. No recent releases that were likely to have been involved in this… okay," she said, seeing his expression. "I'm sorry. Call Hayley and tell her to stay put, and we'll go and pick her up, okay?"

As Lestrade pulled his phone out, it spontaneously started to ring. He flung it onto the floor as if it had been a snake and covered his face with his hands.

"Greg…?"

"It's June Merivale," he choked. "She's been calling all morning… I can't, Mel, I just can't…"

Melissa reached down to the phone, picked it up, and killed the ringtone. "Okay," she said gently, laying her cheek against his shoulder and listening, for a few seconds, to the thud of his heart and the slight wheeze of his breath.

"Sorry..."

"Shut up, Greg. You've nothing to be sorry for."

The phone in her hand started ringing again. Grimacing, Melissa put it to her ear.

"Detective Inspector Merivale, is it?" she said down the line. "Dr. Melissa Brennan, Greg's fiancee. Yes, he's here… No. We're on our way to pick up his daughter… absolutely not. We will come back and see you about this issue in…" She flicked a look at the digital clock on the dashboard. "Give us ninety minutes. We'll see you then. Stop calling."

She threw the phone into the console in disgust and twisted the key in the ignition again. "Museum?" she suggested quietly.

He nodded.

"Do you want some time to calm down first?"

He nodded again.

"Okay." She checked her shoulder, then merged again into oncoming traffic. "I'm dying for a cup of coffee. I think you could do with one, too."

This time, there was no reply. The only sound in the car was the rhythmic squelch of the windscreen wipers.

* * *

John, arriving at Scotland Yard fifteen minutes after Lestrade and Melissa left it, got Charlie out of the car with misgivings. Even though they'd resorted to once taking her to the Barts morgue when she was seven weeks old, Charlie was not permitted into the third-floor lab where her mother spent much of her work day. He doubted their forensic lab was going to be any safer for a toddler than Barts'.

"Please behave," he muttered to her as he locked the car and hurried toward the front doors. "There might be chocolate in it for you…"

After a short trip in the lift, Anderson was in the corridor waiting for him. John had expected him to be wearing a lab coat and possibly latex gloves as well, but he was dressed down in a blue cotton shirt and jeans. He glanced dubiously at Charlie as the lift doors shut behind them.

"Sorry," John said ruefully. "She won't touch anything. What's going on?"

"You've still not been able to get hold of Sherlock?" Anderson tried.

John shook his head. For a second he felt a flash of injured pride, until he remembered that he'd prefer Sherlock to surface sometime imminently, too. Surely Matthew couldn't be that hard to find…? Sherlock knew every inch of London, or seemed to. He'd found a ridiculous amount of missing persons over the years. He was better than a bloodhound. What the hell was taking him so long?

Anderson led him not into the sort of laboratory he expected, all vials and tubes and acrid chemicals, but into what looked like a board-room. Flicking the fluorescent lights on, he went over to a long table lined with ergonomic chairs, where a number of crime scene photographs lay spread out. Shifting through them, he handed one to John. "I thought this was odd," he said as he handed it over, furtive but eager. "But I didn't know why at the time. The crime scene at Thompson's. Do you remember there was a puddle of vomit on the floor?"

John frowned. "Just the one?" he said lightly, peering at the colour image in his hand. "I remember the smell. I'm not surprised, though. If he'd been dunked under more than once, it's likely he'd have thrown up in between."

"That's what I thought," Anderson said, handing over another photograph. "But the reason I thought it was strange was because it was a neat little puddle, and all the way over near the window…"

John looked up from the photograph. "Like he was standing still?"

Anderson nodded. "Not the sort of thing I was expecting. So I've been doing some tests. You're right – Thompson vomited on himself. But the vomit near the window was a completely different sample. From a different person, I mean."

John raised his eyebrows. "You think the murderer did it? The murderer vomited at the crime scene they created?"

"Apparently."

John was silent for a few seconds, puzzling this out. "Can you get DNA from vomit?" he finally asked.

"Probably."

_"_ _Probably?"_

"The sample's old, so it'll be harder than if we'd rushed it in straight from the scene. If I _can_ get a profile, it might take a couple of days. And it's only good if we have something to match it with. But it's something."


	10. Safe

Hayley wrung her long fair hair in her hands and over her shoulder as she hurried down the forecourt stairs of the British Museum. No Matthew – at least, no Matthew anywhere in the Ancient Greek display area or anywhere in the Reading Room. She'd just been contemplating where to try next when Mel had texted: _Sorry, your dad wants to come get you. Be out front half hr?_

She glanced at her watch. Still a couple of minutes before Mel's deadline. God, she _really_ needed a cup of coffee.

Traffic on the street outside the main gates was sluggish at best, but she gave a perfunctory glance both ways before stepping across to the Starbucks on the other side of the street. Ten minutes later, hot styrofoam cup in her hand, she stepped back out again, backing up for a second as a cloud of cigarette smoke wafted into her face from a young man who'd just strolled obliviously past.

Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she pulled out her phone and scrolled down to Jake's number. "It's me," she said as soon as he picked up. "He's not in the museum. Well, he's not where I thought he might be in the museum. You could probably lose someone for a week in there, but none of the staff seem to remember him. Did you have any luck with the cab companies…?"

"Not yet," Jake said. "I've got two of them reviewing their footage now, but nobody who was on shift in the area last night seems to remember him. But we'll find him, Hayley. We will."

Hayley hesitated. "I can't help thinking," she said, swallowing hard. "About what you and Dad were talking about last night, about this being aimed at Dad. Do you think it is?"

"… Maybe," Jake conceded, puffing out a breath into the phone receiver. "And if someone's got it in for your dad, after his family or his team or both…" He trailed off, leaving the obvious conclusion to hang on the line between them.

"After you're finished work, pack up some things and come over to the house for a few days." Hayley shifted the too-hot cup in her hand. "Just until you get this guy. Dad won't mind. I think he'd like having you around, actually. He likes you a lot more than you think."

He hesitated. "But my parents - "

Hayley smiled grimly. She'd anticipated that line a mile away. Jake was devoted to both his parents and his brother Josh, who was thirteen. "If someone's targeting dad, then they're not going to be interested in Josh or your parents," she explained, stepping off the kerb on her way back across the street. "You'd be making them safer by getting out of the way. And anyway, if… oh, hell," she broke off, pausing for a second to listen to the faint, insistent little bleep on the line. "I've got to go, Jake, there's another call coming in and it might be Matty. I'll call you later, okay?" Without waiting for a response, she switched lines. "Hello?"

Silence. Hayley put her finger in her free ear to concentrate better on the line. A bus roared off from the kerb and she winced, looking around for a more quiet spot to head to. "Hello?" she said again. "Matty, is that you?"

For a second she heard, or thought she heard, a hiss of breath.

"Matthew?" she insisted. "Dad's going nuts, you know. I know you're scared, but running away isn't going to solve anything. If you tell me where you are I'll come and get you…"

Trailing off, she looked up to see her father getting out of the car on the other side of the road. She hailed him with one hand.

"Look, come on." It had just occurred to her that she may not have been speaking to her brother after all. "You've gone to all the trouble of ringing me, you may as well actually talk. Who is this?"

Silence. Dad had just approached her and stopped short, watching anxiously; she pointed to the phone silently and he nodded, then pulled his own phone out and fed in a number, wandering away a few steps. She knew he'd just called someone he knew in technical forensics to see if they could trace the caller. _Keep them on the line,_ he mouthed to her, and she nodded.

* * *

 

Sherlock stepped out of a clump of hawthorn and spindle, looking around warily. After a few seconds he straightened up.

"Nobody here," he announced. "They've already collected their forensic evidence. Still, I expected a police guard of some sort. Follow me, and keep alert. Remember what I told you."

Following Sherlock to the boarded window, Matthew nervously ran over what Sherlock had told him. In the event of an emergency, he was to do exactly as he was told and, if separated from Sherlock, he was to make his way back to the Cock Lane bolt hole and stay there until further notice. Following Sherlock's example, he clambered through the gap in the broken boards and into the dark space beyond. A large room, octagonal, and lit dimly by the cracks of daylight through the boarded windows and a high garret roof. He coughed as dust particles swirled up into his face.

"So you took Celeste here. Did you go upstairs?" Sherlock gestured to the staircase, a winding, steep affair of rusted wrought iron. Matthew shook his head.

"No," he said hoarsely, giving one last cough. "That's… part of what I don't understand. Why she went up. We had a look at the stairs and thought they were dangerous. If you put a foot right through it…"

"And yet, at least two people made their way up here quite easily," Sherlock remarked, looking down at the first three steps. "On the left, here. These footprints are mine, and these are your father's, from where we both went up yesterday. Indistinct. No details of the treads. We were both wearing shoe covers. But here." He pointed again. "Here's a tread-mark. What size shoe do you wear?" He glanced down at Matthew's feet. "Ten," he answered for him. "These are a nine. Very casual shoe. Trainers, probably."

"Can you see Celeste's shoeprints?" Matthew asked him. "Or was she… was, I mean…?" He swallowed.

Sherlock, down on his haunches at the bottom step of the staircase, drew his slide magnifying glass out of his pocket with one hand and gestured to Matthew with the other. "What do you think?" he asked as Matthew crouched down beside him. Matthew gave him a doubtful look.

Sherlock sighed. "Can you just look - no, actually don't just look. _Observe_. What shoes was Celeste wearing when she died?"

"… I don't know."

"I do. And traces of their tread are here." He pointed. "Aside from that, I believe they found her fingerprints on the stair rail, which indicates she went up of her own accord and wasn't being carried. But that's not important," he went on without pause. "Do you know why I brought you here?"

Matthew shook his head.

"Because I need you to remember everything that happened in here with Celeste. Everything you did, everything you said. The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that you're the link between Celeste and Thompson, not your father."

"But I didn't know Thompson."

"You didn't need to. I believe that both Celeste and Thompson were killed because they knew too much. And whatever they knew, you know it, too." He pointed for emphasis. "Your book. You've been researching it for over a year."

"Uh, yes." Matthew scratched the back of his head for a second in a way that reminded Sherlock unmistakeably of his father.

"And you took inspiration from real life cases." "Yeah. I based the main detective on you," Matthew said. "His name-"

"Yes, congratulations on managing to give him a more absurd name than _Sherlock Holmes_." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "His name is not important. The book isn't due to be published until next month, which means that if you've kept to your publishing contract and managed to keep the contents off the internet all this time, very few people will have ever read it. Did Celeste?"

"Yeah." Matthew blinked. "Of course she did."

"And you didn't base the book on anything to do with your father's team? Some case or operation that Thompson would have been involved in?"

Matthew shook his head. "Dad doesn't… well, he did help a bit with the book, but you can't get him to talk about actual cases. He says it's just asking for trouble where real people are involved." He ruminated for a few seconds. "But I did –"

Before he could get any further, they both heard the crunch of boots on the gravel just outside the window they had entered by.

"You what?" Sherlock said insistently, giving Matthew's arm a little shake. "Quickly, _tell me_ – oh, here!" He grabbed Matthew by the wrist and dragged him to the battered door of a storage cupboard under the stairs. Pushing his head down with one hand, he opened it with the other and shoved him in. "Be quiet," he ordered. "Don't move."

"Hello?" A female voice emerged from behind the broken boards. "Is anyone in here?"

The storage cupboard, Sherlock had discovered too late, was far too small for both Matthew and himself. Left without a hiding spot, he walked toward the beam of Detective Constable Sarah Draper's torch. It bounced over the wall behind him and finally came to rest directly on his suit. He heard her little squeal of alarm and wondered, for a moment, how a woman who clearly had weak nerves could function as a police officer. He couldn't even imagine Sergeants Jones or Donovan squealing like a spooked six-year-old.

"Hello," he said flatly, heaving a sigh. "Sarah, is it? I believe we met yesterday."

The torch beam dipped violently. "Turn around!" she screamed at him. "Now! And keep your hands where I can see them!"

"Oh, for God's _sake_." Sherlock turned his back to her and paired his wrists so that she could cuff them. _She's terrified,_ he realised, feeling her icy fingers on his as she fumbled with the cuffs. _It must be obvious to even the most dim-witted officers by now that any one of them could be next_. "Ow! _Careful_ ," he complained as she slammed one cuff down and it nipped his wrist.

"Sherlock Holmes," she said shakily, "I am arresting you for trespassing beyond a police barrier…"

"Fine," he said, cutting off her explanation that he had the right to remain silent. "Take me back to Scotland Yard. I need to speak with Detective Inspector Merivale – now."

* * *

 

June Merivale sipped at her first cup of coffee for the day – about three hours later than she preferred it – and groaned inwardly. Draper had just radioed in that she'd arrested Sherlock Holmes at Severndroog Castle and was bringing him in, and Merivale was trying to decide whether she was going to ream Draper for attending the scene on her own now or save it for later.

Before she could move her attention to the homicide report on her desk, she heard a minor kerfuffle in the hall leading from the lifts, including a very distinct voice.

 _He's here._ She sipped her coffee again and rose, wandering out to the main office floor just in time to see Sherlock Holmes lurch into view. Draper had cuffed him and seemed to almost be shoving him along; she was barely five feet tall and Merivale, not for the first time, had to admire how scrappy she could be when the occasion called for it.

"Merivale-"

"Oi," Draper said, tugging at Sherlock's cuffed wrists a little to get his attention. "You've been arrested and you're under caution, do you get that?"

Sherlock glanced at her over his shoulder. "Yes, I get that," he said disdainfully, then turned back to Merivale. "I need to speak with you," he said. "Privately and immediately. It concerns the case, and it can't wait."

Merivale hesitated for a few seconds. Then she exhaled lightly. "Okay," she said. "Five minutes. And then you'll kindly submit to fingerprinting. You can uncuff him now, Draper. Could you go and get the paperwork sorted out?"

Draper reluctantly fumbled to unlock Sherlock's handcuffs, not bothering to help him after they'd been unlocked. Merivale beckoned one finger at Sherlock and led him into her office, where he shut the door with an emphatic _clunk_.

"Celeste knew something," he said. "Something about Bob Thompson. And if your constable hadn't arrested me, I think I stood a very good chance of finding out what that was."

Merivale dropped into her seat. "It might surprise you to learn that I'd already supposed something like that was going on," she said, clasping her fingers and looking up at him through her thick fringe of greying dark hair. "So what do you want me to do, exactly?"

"I want you to post a police guard of two uniformed and armed officers at the home of Greg Lestrade and every single surviving member of his team," Sherlock said. "And I want you to order it immediately. If past performance is anything to go on, this killer could strike again within hours."

"Do you have the faintest idea how the police force works, Mr. Holmes?" Merivale asked. "Officers like to get paid for their work. Which means that your suggested uniformed officers will need to be paid overtime. Which I have to apply for and receive permission for. Round-the-clock surveillance for ten detectives means another twenty uniformed officers, at the least. Just how many officers do you think we have, that we can spare twenty of them to sit about doing nothing for an indefinite period of time?"

"They won't be doing nothing," Sherlock said testily. "They will be serving and protecting a team of detectives…"

"Detectives you've yet to prove are in any significant danger."

Sherlock slammed his open palm down on the desk, close to Merivale's fingers. She looked up at him.

"Right," she said. "I've had quite enough of that from you, Mr. Holmes." She stood up and went to the door of her office. "Draper," she said. "Get Mr. Holmes fingerprinted and given a nice comfortable cell, will you?"

"What? You can't keep me here."

"Oh, I'm afraid I really can. You're under arrest for trespass, and I can hold you for twenty-four hours. That's if you really have no idea where Matthew Lestrade really is. May I remind you that he is a minor?"

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock groaned. "And may I remind you what happened the last time I was accused of kidnapping a child...? Oh, fine." He stood up, resigned, as Sarah Draper appeared in the doorway again. He held his hands out to her. "Do you want to cuff me again, too?"

"Don't be a smart-arse," Draper said without smiling. "Just come over here and we'll go through the usual. You're still under caution, too. Take the hint and shut your mouth."

* * *

 

It was another twenty minutes before Merivale, kneading her shut eyes with her fingertips, heard a familiar rap on her office door. She looked up. Not Draper, this time; Pinari.

"Yes?" she said, a little testily.

"Greg Lestrade's just arrived, Marm," Pinari said, ducking his head in that obsequious way that always managed to get on Merivale's nerves. "Has his partner and daughter with him."

"Good." Merivale got up, scrabbling for a pen on her desk. "I need to speak with them, too."

Greg Lestrade was, as Pinari had said, in the waiting room with the two women. Merivale paused in the doorway for a second to reflect, with a tinge of malice, that they could both be his daughters. But before she could open her mouth, he crossed the room to her.

"Hey, June," he blurted out. "I need you to run a check -"

"Yes, thanks for getting here, finally." Merivale glanced at her watch. "Are you generally three and a half hours late to work?"

Lestrade gritted his teeth for a second and swallowed down on something. "Work? Does that mean I'm getting paid for my time just now?"

"Don't do this, Greg. I don't want to end up arresting you, too."

"No, you don't – you have other things to chase up. My daughter took a call from her mobile in Bloomsbury half an hour ago. We think it's either from Matthew or from the killer. You need to do a full trace on that call. June, if a killer is _calling my daughter_ I'm - "

"We'll get the tech team on it this afternoon, Greg – just calm down, okay? There's nothing we can do about it in the next two minutes. I can…" She paused. "I can post an officer at your house for security if you're worried about your safety," she finally said. Then, determined to be fair, "Holmes doesn't think it's a bad idea, anyway."

He blinked. "What?"

"Your sniffer dog was arrested at Severndroog Castle an hour ago," she said, trying to keep the contempt out of her voice. "He's here."

"Where?" "Cell 2D. Greg, we're not finished – "

"Yes, we are." Lestrade brushed past her, turning a corner in the corridor behind on his way to the holding cells. Only one of them seemed to be occupied. The supervising officer, a young man he didn't recognise, stared at him in some consternation.

"Hi," he said, fishing his warrant card out of his pocket. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to speak with the prisoner in Cell 2D, now."

The young constable glanced uncertainly over his shoulder as Merivale arrived. "Marm?" he asked deferentially.

Lestrade turned to her. "Two minutes," he begged. "Give me two minutes."

"I'll do you better than that," she said. "I'm not a bloody ogre, Greg. Go on."

The constable handed over his keys, and Lestrade went in, roughly elbowing the heavy door shut. Sherlock had been seated on the bench on the far wall, but on seeing who it was, he scrambled to his feet so abruptly that he nearly tripped over them.

"Lestrade," he blurted out. "Listen to me. I need you to talk to whoever you have to to get me out of this cell immediately. Then take Melissa and Hayley home and stay there until I've figured out how to stop the killer. You-"

"Where's Matthew?"

Sherlock let out a breath and dropped his shoulders. "He's… safe," he finally said, covering his face with his hands for a second, as if aware of the inadequacy of his reply. "Did you speak with –"

"No," Lestrade said. "That's not a good enough answer. Where's Matthew?"

Sherlock looked at him in silence, then shook his head.

"I can't believe you…" Lestrade took a step back. "Seriously? I asked you to help me get my son back, and now-"

"No, you didn't," Sherlock said. "You asked me to find him. I found him. You asked me to make sure he was safe, and while he stays where I told him to stay, he is safe..."

Sherlock trailed off, watching as Lestrade suddenly folded forward, hands on knees, like a man who'd just run a marathon. He took a couple of breaths in and out.

"Oh, my God," he finally said. "So you've kidnapped my son, is what you're saying…"

"Yes, just like I kidnapped and poisoned the Bruhl children," Sherlock snapped. "Not exactly the finest moment of your career, _that_ little mistake, was it? You've trusted me before. Trust me now, and get me out of this cell so I can find this killer. Call Commissioner Hale if you have to."

"No. Not until you tell me where Matthew is."

"For God's sake, I don't have time for this game, and neither do you, because you're in danger. You _all_ are. I have no idea who the murderer will target next. I won't know until I investigate more, and I can't investigate in a holding cell. Which of your team would you prefer to lose next? Do you want it to be Dyer?"

For a few seconds it was so quiet both could hear a phone ringing at the reception desk, four cells over.

"Go to hell, Sherlock," Lestrade said.

Before Sherlock could process this, he turned and left, slamming the cell door shut behind him.


	11. Unsex Me

After another hour of sitting looking at the grey tiled walls of his cell, Sherlock heard two sets of footsteps in the corridor and the jangle of keys. He recognised John by his walking pace and gait well before the door swung open, bringing both him and Charlie into view.

A one-second glance told Sherlock that he was not going anywhere immediately, though John had tried.

"Hi. Brought you something," he said awkwardly, placing a plastic bag stacked with steamed-up rectangular containers onto the bench seat beside Sherlock, who barely glanced down at it. Chinese food.

"I'm stuck in a holding cell, and you brought me dinner?"

"Best I could do, Sherlock. Sorry. I even called Mycroft for you, asked him if he could make a few phone calls and sort this out. I won't tell you what he said... oh, fine, here." He put Charlie on Sherlock's knee.

Sherlock sighed heavily.

"Anyway," John continued. "You're stuck in here for the night." He handed him a pair of chopsticks wrapped in white printed paper. Then, as if it had just struck his mind, went to his pocket again and drew out Sherlock's phone. "Merivale said you can have this back," he said. "I told her you might need it. Might've hinted that Mycroft will go on the warpath if he can't contact you in a hurry."

"It's likely." Sherlock snatched at it and peered at the display. At 48%, the battery mightn't last the night, but it was better than not having it at all. "Oh," he said vaguely, not glancing up from the display. "I think you might want to do something with the cat, or something…"

"You mean, like feed her?"

"Yes. That." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"Already done. Don't worry about her... and that's your own food, Sherlock." He pointed. "Just so you know."

Sherlock riffed the top off the first container and, with expert precision, poked at the contents with his chopsticks and started shoving Schezuan Prawns into his mouth. Immediately, Charlie grabbed for it. "Mine," she said in a little voice.

John laughed. "That's a new one," he said. "What the hell are you teaching her, Sherlock? Looking forward to 'bored' and 'now' next. _No_ , Charlotte. I know you're probably starving by now, but definitely _not_ yours." He turned his attention back to Sherlock. "So what do you want me to do now?"

"I want you to take yourself – and your gun – over and stay with Greg's family tonight," Sherlock said. The spices in his mouth suddenly kicked up a gear, and he coughed. "Just in case…"

"Just in case of _what_? You seriously don't think the murderer would be stupid enough to target Greg and his family? It's pretty clear we're onto them."

Sherlock shook his head. "I hate this," he said, "but I have no idea what they're going to do next."

"Well, I can tell you what _Greg's_ going to be doing next – driving through every street in London, trying to guess where you've put Matthew. He probably won't be home at all tonight. Sherlock, if you just told him –"

Sherlock shot him a look.

"Then tell _me_ ," John said.

"And what will you do when Greg asks you if you know where Matthew is?"

John hesitated for a second. "I wouldn't tell him," he finally said.

"Your face would, and the rest of you would follow. You're a _terrible_ liar."

"Okay." John sighed. "So please tell me he's at least got money? Food?"

Sherlock considered this. He _had_ told Matthew where to find the emergency supply of cash in the bolt hole – all ten pounds of it – in the refrigerator door. It wouldn't last long, but at least some of the Network knew what was going on by now and would be able to help, provided Matthew got up enough nerve to actually ask for it.

"Yes," he said. "He does."

* * *

John's insistence on bringing Molly and Charlie with him to Greg's place wasn't entirely motivated by their comfort and safety. Both were favourites with Greg, and as fumed-up as he was over Sherlock's apparent betrayal, he was unlikely to turn them away. He waited until Molly had taken Charlie upstairs to change her before even opening his mouth.

"I suppose you think I'm being unreasonable," he said over his shoulder at no-one specifically as he stormed about the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards as if looking for something.

"No," John said. "If he wouldn't tell me where Charlie was, I'd probably deck him."

"But getting mad about it isn't helping Matty, Dad," Hayley tried. "Or anyone, really."

Beside her, Jake reached out and touched her arm. She turned and looked up at him quizzically, and he shook his head a little.

"And anyway, Mel, what's going on with you?" Lestrade suddenly turned to her accusingly. "You're a forensic psychologist, and you haven't said much about the killer. What are we meant to be looking for?"

Melissa thought for a second, then blew out a breath through her lips. "I really can't give you an accurate profile off the top of my head," she said, folding her arms. "And it's harder when it gets personal. But I think the police already know the basics, anyway. This is a young man's crime. Probably no older than thirty-five, forty at the most. Average intelligence."

"Average intelligence, who's based his crimes around the complete works of William bloody Shakespeare?"

"But he hasn't, has he?" John pointed out. "I noticed that about Thompson's death. It all seemed pretty legit, until Molly called. She told me he drowned in water, not wine."

"And what's that mean?"

"It means the killer's not killing ritually, according to Shakespeare," Melissa said. "He's just propping the victims up afterward to look like he is. Playing a game, not fulfilling a psychotic impulse. It's a totally different motivation. With a totally different psychological profile. Most serial killers, in the strictest sense of the word, pick their victims at opportunity – not randomly. They pick out the vulnerable ones. But this guy is targeting specific people. That's a vendetta."

"A vendetta about what?"

"Did you never chat with Matthew about your job?" John tried.

Lestrade groaned. " _No_ ," he said testily. "I've already told Merivale that. I don't discuss work at home."

"Yeah, well, Sherlock thinks he knew something, anyway," John said. "And _I'm_ thinking it's probably about a case, but I can't be sure."

"Neither can I, and I can't bloody ask him because he's probably holed up under a bridge somewhere."

John and Melissa looked at each other in silence for a second or two, just as Molly appeared in the doorway with Charlie.

"This novel of his," John finally said. "It's a crime novel, right? Do you have a copy I could get my hands on?"

"Um." Lestrade swiped at his forehead for a second, thinking. "There was a copy on his computer, but that's with the tech team. But I'm pretty sure he also had a hard copy in his room somewhere. I could go find it." He frowned. "You think it'd help?"

John shrugged. "It can't hurt, can it?"

* * *

It was almost completely dark in his cell when Sherlock slowly woke. Only the exit sign over the door gave off a dull green glow. He blinked and then realised what had woken him - June Merivale, still in her conservative blue power-suit and leather shoes, was sitting on the bench near his feet. He started, but she almost smiled at him. "You sleep like a baby, Mr. Holmes," she said.

Sherlock sat up, unsure of how to react to this. "How long have you been there?" he asked.

"Only a couple of minutes."

Sherlock pressed the display on his watch, and it lit up for a second, showing it was shortly before two in the morning. "And are you visiting me for any particular reason?" He drew his coat around himself grouchily. A couple of minutes? That was long enough to strangle someone in their sleep.

"Greg Lestrade's daughter got a phone call from someone when she was outside the British Museum this afternoon," Merivale said. "We've just received the CCTV footage from the time of the call, and I'd like it if you had a look at something for me."

Sherlock gave a snort of contempt. "For you?"

"For Greg, then, if you like."

The shot told. Sherlock took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes, then gave his cheeks a few sharp slaps, trying to wake himself up. The slats he'd been sleeping on weren't exactly comfortable, even given that his old back injury still ached a little when tested. "Where?" he asked.

Merivale got up, and, not bothering to put on his coat or shoes, he followed her out down the corridor and through the security doors into the back offices of the criminal investigation division. A handful of detectives were huddled together around a dated television box.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," Alan Peters said over his shoulder. Sherlock paused, still half-asleep and trying to work out if he was being menacing or simply a little sarcastic. Before he could properly make up his mind, Peters slid a steaming-hot cup across the desk toward him. "Coffee," he said.

Sherlock took a hesitant sip, wondering if he was missing something about these Ordinary People transactions. But the coffee tasted normal, though it was without sugar and bitter.

"I know," another detective, the one Sherlock knew as Matheson, said as he smirked a little at Peters. "Welcome to Team Merivale, Holmes. The coffee is awful, but we're all really, really awake."

"Right," Merivale said, ignoring Matheson and picking up the remote control of the TV. "Hayley told her father - who told me - that when she was on the phone to whoever it was who called, she heard a bus take off from the kerb, both in her free ear and down the phone line. So the caller was in the close vicinity. When the call came up as from the payphone nearby, I got this. We don't have a lot to go on, but it's something." She pressed play, then gestured to a figure in the grainy footage with one finger. "There's Hayley Lestrade as she comes down the steps. She's on the phone already, but it seems she was on the phone to Detective Constable Dyer, who'd been making some enquiries I'm going to have to follow up about."

Sherlock snorted into his cup of coffee, wondering if anyone outside of Lestrade's regular team knew that Hayley Lestrade was doing a lot more than talking on the phone with Constable Dyer. Probably not. It wasn't automatically a breach of conduct for Greg to be supervising someone who was sleeping with his daughter, but it would certainly raise issues about a conflict of interest.

"And here you can see the phone box in question. The caller must have crossed the street first, judging from where they enter the frame here." Merivale pointed. Since Sherlock had already noted the caller's approach and didn't need it spelled out, he instead focused on something he'd been too tired to notice about Inspector Merivale when she'd woken him – her short, utilitarian fingernails were painted a deep plum shade. Extravagance, for a woman of her age and profession.

Sherlock had sometimes wondered why, if London had to have about fifty CCTV cameras for every one of its residents, they had to have such poor visuals and even worse sound. To the untrained eye, the dark figure who Merivale played fifteen times walking into frame, sliding into a phone box on the top left-hand side of the screen, and picking up the receiver ten seconds before Hayley Lestrade did, was just a darkly-dressed enigma.

Fortunately, Sherlock Holmes was not the untrained eye, and June Merivale, while she may have been in his estimation completely dull-witted and unfairly prejudiced against anyone who wasn't, realised it. It was he who had asked her to play the nine seconds of footage, over and over again.

"Right," she said at last, putting the remote control down as if passively refusing to play it one more time. "So we're looking for a man – "

"Woman," Sherlock corrected her quietly.

"Sorry, what?"

"Don't be fooled by the clothing," Sherlock said, pointing to the dark figure frozen on the monitor. "The clothes are what ordinary people remember, so they can be used to create false memories. This person's height and walking pace are both suggestive of a female, and their gait and posture proves it absolutely."

"Does it?"

"There are distinct differences in the way men and women walk. It's not entirely cultural conditioning; biologically, their hips and pelvises are angled differently. That's a woman. I'm certain."

"Well, if it's a woman," Merivale said thoughfully, "any ideas of who it is?"

"Play it again."

Before Merivale could huff Peters fumbled for the remote control and played the grainy footage again while Sherlock peered at it.

"Given her dress and height, I think you're looking for a teenager." Sherlock straightened up. "Call Caitlin Trent in for an interview," he said. "I think she has some explaining to do."

* * *

Four chapters into Matthew's novel, _Death Watch_ , it was pretty obvious that Greg had never picked it up in his life. No matter what he told his son.

John, camped on the downstairs sofa while Molly and Charlie took Matthew's vacant bed, was riveted almost immediately - though maybe not for the same reason as the casual reader would be. The whole thing was a loving tribute to Matthew's secret hero: Sherlock Holmes.

For his lead detective _was_ Sherlock, even though Matthew had managed to name him something even more absurd than Sherlock Holmes: Benedict Cumberbatch. Otherwise, details were strikingly similar. Tall, dark, handsome, well-dressed. Brilliant mind. Little tact. Penchant for being a drama queen. A sidekick, even, whom John was pleased to discover was rational and intelligent, and so far doing quite a lot to assist the hero in his pursuit of a serial poisoner.

But the tension in the house, even with everyone else in bed upstairs, wasn't conducive to a pleasure read. Shortly past two o'clock, John was close to dozing off altogether when he heard the light trill of Molly's mobile phone ringing upstairs. Several minutes later he heard shuffling in the upstairs passage and then Molly tip-toed down the stairs.

"Are you awake?" she whispered to him.

"Yeah." He sat up. "What was that about?"

"That was Philip. He's still waiting on some proofs and can't leave them, but he said he's about falling over exhausted and needs some help. I said I could go and keep an eye on things for a few hours."

"… Philip…?"

"Yes, you know, Philip Anderson?"

John blinked. Christ, had Anderson really been in the lab at New Scotland Yard for the last eighteen hours straight?

"I suppose he was going to tell you anyway," Molly said, "but he was saying he hasn't found any of Matthew's fingerprints in any of the samples he's checked, and nothing in the DNA profiles he's run to suggest Matthew was ever in the house. But the proper tests with full profiles can take weeks to come back."

"Great," John muttered, thinking back to what Sherlock had said about how quickly the killer was working. A few weeks would be long enough to kill off half of Scotland Yard.

"I'll text you when I get there and let you know what's going on," Molly offered.

"Sure, thanks." He reached over to the coffee table and swiped up his car keys, holding them out to her. "And Charlie?"

"Fast asleep - I'm surprised the phone didn't wake her, but she's had such a big day. You should probably go up to her. If she wakes up and finds herself on her own, she may get scared."

"Or fall off the bed," he said, remembering an unpleasant incident two weeks before when Charlie had done just that and nearly given both her parents the fright of their lives. He stood up and leaned over the coffee table to kiss Molly's cheek. "Don't tire yourself out too much, Lolly."

"No. Promise I'll be back soon."

She slipped her shoes on in the front entry and gingerly opened the heavy front door, trying not to make too much noise with it. It stuck, and then swung open with a sharp creak. She flinched, then went through and shut it behind herself. He listened to her muffled footfalls on the front steps.

Something smashed.

John heard a muffled little cry from Molly. In half a second he'd thrown the front door open and was beside her at the foot of the steps.

"What?" he demanded, trying to see for himself in the dim light of the street lamp. But before Molly could explain it, he saw. Greg's car was parked in the driveway, and slivers of glass were scattered around the back panel window. In the shadows beyond, he saw someone in a dark hoodie running up the street.

"Hey!" John took off after them. But he was barefoot, and they had a good head start on him, never once even glancing back. It was only when they disappeared into a laneway that led to a nearby park that he remembered he'd left Molly standing on her own at the bottom of the steps. By the time he turned back she was walking quickly toward him.

"What the hell just happened?" he blurted out, glancing up as a light flickered on in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Well, he'd woken _someone_ , anyway.

He heard the distant thud of feet on the staircase and Greg appeared on the front step, still fastening his trousers with one hand. "John?"

Upstairs, Charlie started to wail, but John barely registered the sound. He had just seen the hessian bag that the intruder had thrown onto the front seat of Greg's car. It seemed empty, but on it was pinned another note. No Shakespeare this time.

 _Help_ _her_


	12. The Nature of Bad News

"Christ, June," Greg said on first glimpse of her as she got out of the car and began to cross the dark street to him. "You're still on? Go home and sleep."

Merivale lifted one hand to her iron-grey bob self-consciously, though as usual she hadn't so much as a hair out of place. But there were now deep smudges under her eyes and she swayed a little on her feet. Watching her, Lestrade reflected, and not for the first time, that there was a particular sweet age for detectives who sometimes didn't see a pillow every day or their own home and spouse in a week. Old enough to be used to the business, but still young enough that a couple of cups of coffee and the right kind of attitude would see them through. June Merivale, who'd come alone, had been that age during the Thatcher administration. "Sleep? Who's got time for that?" she wanted to know wearily.

"You do," he said, folding his arms severely as if he was addressing one of his constables. "I don't know how many times I've had to tell my lot that a detective who's sleep deprived has all the skills of one who's three sheets -"

"Oh, spare me the OH&S," she said. "No sign of your boy yet?"

Lestrade shook his head. "I don't suppose you could torture the information out of Holmes for me."

John winced, and it wasn't the implausible threat of torture that had done it. He'd never heard Greg call Sherlock "Holmes" before. The name conjured up more of the sort of bully tactics Anderson had started at Thompson's murder scene.

"Not likely," Merivale said. "You were right, he's a stubborn bugger. Mind you, you do owe him one. I had him have a look at that CCTV footage of the phone call Hayley got. He reckons it's Caitlin Trent."

"Caitlin Trent?" Lestrade looked blank. "And who's she when she's at home?"

"A real pain in the arse, is what she is. At least, from what I hear. Haven't had the pleasure yet, but Celeste's mum included her and her brother in a list of Celeste's school friends. She wasn't one of Matthew's friends?"

"The name's not ringing a bell. You think she did it?"

"No chance in hell a teenage girl could have killed Bob Thompson like that, and anyway, she has no motive to," Merivale said shortly. "But I'm sending a couple of my lot out to the Trent's once it's a decent hour, bring her in, have a nice little chat about pissing around in phone boxes for funsies when there's a murder enquiry on. So what have we got here, then?" She peered through the broken car window, though the halo of light at the front door didn't extend so far as the drive and not a lot could be seen in the dark.

"Piece of sacking, or something, and a handwritten note saying _help her._ Don't have a stroke, we didn't touch any of it."

"Good. Forensics would never forgive you. They're on their way."

Molly, sitting over on the front step and rocking Charlie against her shoulder, suddenly looked alarmed. Melissa had just come out to the step and put a cup of tea beside her. She muttered something inaudibly to Molly before Greg asked, "Who's on? Anderson?" as if on cue.

Merivale shook her head. "Gifford," she said. "She said she'll be half an hour at most. Probably got one of her students with her, but we can't have it all our own way." She suddenly switched gears and turned to Molly, going over to sit down beside her on the front steps. "Mrs Watson, right?"

She nodded. "Molly."

"I'm June. Aww, and is this Charlie? Your hubby mentioned her. She looks a little bit like my daughter did at that age. Dianne's about _your_ age, now."

For a second, Greg saw not the woman making life as difficult as possible for his family, but the one who had saved two-year-old Archer Towery when his overwhelmed, deeply-depressed mother Rachelle had tried to throw both of them off that car-park roof. _I get it. I've been there. It's difficult when you've got kids to think about. You're not weak. You're a strong woman and a good mother._

"And you saw the guy who did it, right?" she went on, smashing the illusion. All business and enough of the motherly bullshit; she had a murder enquiry to run.

Molly shook her head. "I only saw his face for a second before he ran," she explained. "A man… well, a boy, really. He might have been… twenty? I'm not very good at telling people's ages."

"Neither am I." Merivale smiled. "What was he wearing, do you remember?"

There was a sudden glint in Molly's eyes; effrontery at the idea that all because she couldn't tell twenty from twenty-five, she wouldn't remember something she'd seen clearly only twenty minutes before. "He had a white hoodie on, and maybe a pair of jeans and trainers, dark trainers… I can't tell you much more. I didn't hear his voice. It all happened so quickly..."

Merivale asked, "Was the hoodie up or down?"

"Up," Molly said without hesitation. "So I didn't see his hair colour or anything. He was white, so I think his hair mightn't be very dark, but… you know. I suppose it could have been. After a bit, you start wondering if you're remembering something or making it up."

"So it wasn't anyone you recognised?" Melissa asked, blithely ignoring Merivale's glare for jumping into what was shaping up as an ad hoc interrogation.

"No. I've never seen him before."

"Okay." Merivale nodded and stood up again. "If that's all you can remember, no point in dragging you in for an interview at three in the morning. Especially since for all we know, this is just a sick prank from some idiot with more time than sense." She looked askance at Greg. "I suppose you saw it on the news last night. The whole thing's out - Celeste, Thompson."

"But not the notes, the Shakespeare," Greg said. "Not on any of the channels I checked, anyway."

"No," Merivale agreed. "Press office requested that to be kept a secret. Still, lots of people leave notes, and this one doesn't sound like Shakespeare to me…"

As Merivale, Greg and Mel launched into a conversation about the case, full of obscure references to Jimmy in the Press Office and Kath from IT, John wandered back to where Molly sat on the step. He reached out and gently tweaked at one of Charlie's ash-blonde locks of hair. "Asleep?" he mouthed.

Molly nodded. "What do you think I should do?"

"You said you'd go and help out Anderson, so you may as well. Behind a locked lab door might be the safest place in London right now. I'll drive you in, if you want," John offered, looking up as Merivale's phone started to ring and she excused herself to walk away a few paces and answer it. "Just phone when you want to come home…"

He trailed off. Both of them had just heard Merivale say, "Shit. Who called that in?"

Everyone fell silent, though Merivale still had her back to them, wandering further down the drive as she listened, phone at her ear.

 _"Shit_ , _"_ she said again. "All right, no more pissing about on this one, are we clear on that? A pair of armed uniforms at the registered addresses of everyone who's worked with Greg in the last year or two. Send them now… well, get Tebbutt onto it, then. I'll meet you there…" She glanced at her watch. "Twenty-five minutes, maybe. Bring Holmes with you… yeah, I know, but he was right about the Trent girl, wasn't he? Be a grown-up and ignore it… okay. If there's no answer you keep the lads off the scene as much as possible and wait for the techs, all right? See you then."

All eyes were on her as she disconnected the call and turned back around.

"When you told me what the note said, Greg," she began slowly, putting her phone back in her pocket, "I got Alan Peters to call the known contact numbers of every _her_ the note might be referring to. All accounted for, except Sergeant Jones. She isn't answering her mobile or her landline. I'm headed out there to see why."

Lestrade swallowed. "Do you think she's…"

"No idea yet. For all we know, she's fast asleep, or listening to loud music, or in the middle of the best shag of her life and will wonder what the bloody hell all the fuss is about when we get to her place. I hope that's all it is. I'll let you know as soon as there's anything to tell."

There was a couple of seconds of grim silence before Melissa suddenly announced, "I'll come with you. If there's…" She looked at Greg, then stopped. She had only a nodding acquaintance with Sergeant Jones, but from the look on Greg's face, she wasn't a team member he wanted particularly to lose.

Merivale, understanding what Melissa had left unspoken, nodded grimly. "Right," she said. "You can put in for overtime later."

"Oh, bugger the overtime. I'm planning on marrying this man, not burying him," Melissa said. "I'll follow behind you. Give me the address, and I'll see you there."

* * *

Melissa soon left in her own car, leaving Hayley still inside the house and the two detectives standing in the dark driveway, hands in pockets, wondering what to do next. After a silence, Dyer touched Lestrade's shoulder lightly and gestured; across the street they saw the front-room light flicker on and the curtains move. Lestrade grimaced. Anita Braach. The entire Braach family hated his guts, primarily because he was in law enforcement and they were in law breaking - nothing the murder squad had any dibs on, as far as he knew. But Anita was no doubt over there cackling with glee at all this, and had been since the six o'clock news the night before.

"I don't like just standing here waiting," Jake finally said.

"Neither do I, but there's not a lot we can do about it."

"If we go out to Jones's place-"

Lestrade shook his head. "Wouldn't do any good," he said. "It's not like they'd let us anywhere within about six streets of it, not under the circumstances. Anyway, looks like we'll have the uniforms over here before long, with their wonderful _protection_."

Jake looked as disgusted as Lestrade felt. "But we're witnesses," he protested. "I mean… not to… God, if she's dead-"

"Want to know what I'm thinking?"

Jake looked up at him.

"Start telling yourself Jones _is_ dead, mate. If she's not, you'll get a nice surprise." Lestrade suddenly patted his pockets. "Shit," he muttered.

"What?"

"Left my smokes in the glove box." He looked over Jake's shoulder back to the Braach's house. The light was still on, but the curtains were now drawn. "You tell Merivale I did this, and I'll have you sent back to working traffic stops until you retire." He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around his fingers before gingerly opening the passenger side door.

His first thought was that someone had left a brown leather belt in the car, and it had slid onto his shoes. But brown leather belts don't have fangs.

* * *

By the time Molly finally arrived at the forensics lab at New Scotland Yard, it was just past three in the morning. Philip Anderson met her in the vestibule to hand over a coat, gloves and hairnet. "Did something happen?" he asked her as she struggled into them. "I thought you'd be here half an hour ago."

Molly opened her mouth to tell him all about the strange incident with Greg's car. At the last minute, though, something stopped her. "Oh, no," she finally said. "I just had to wake John to take me in, and we had to deal with Charlie. Sorry."

"You're here now." Anderson yawned and shut the lab door behind her. As he walked past her, Molly wrinkled her nose in disgust and her stomach flipped ominously. He obviously hadn't had a shower in the past day or two, and probably hadn't brushed his teeth in all that time, either. She had a moment of hoping his lab practices were cleaner than his personal hygiene, and that she wouldn't have to explain to him that his rank body odour was making her throw up.

"I don't need to gear up for the Clean Room, then?" she asked, swallowing.

He muttered something inaudible, then shook his head. "Already got through that part - most of it, anyway. To tell you the truth, I'm out of my depth with this," he admitted.

Molly thought of something Sherlock had once blithely said: _Anderson would be out of his depth in a mud puddle._

"If we were doing this all above-board I'd request a fingerprint analysis specialist to come in and have a look." He rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "I haven't come across anything that even looks like Matthew's prints yet, but looking for them might all be a waste of time. Whoever killed Thompson is smart enough to quote Shakespeare. They're probably smart enough to use gloves." He slouched a little as he let out an exhausted sigh. "So I could have just wasted most of a day achieving nothing."

Molly had spent many hours and days on projects that had ultimately become a waste of time. She smiled grimly. "What about… er. What about the vomit?" she asked, swallowing again at the mention of it. "That you found on the floor at Bob Thompson's place?"

"Oh, you know the full profile'll take weeks to come back," he said unhappily. "It was something starchy - potatoes, mostly. Chips." He shrugged. "No prescription drugs, no alcohol… nothing sinister. I can't go back to Greg with nothing but that to go on. But so far, the DNA on the vomit isn't giving any matches or partial-matches to the sample Greg gave me, so it looks like Matthew's in the clear for now. Unless… well, we all know Greg's ex ran around on him…"

Molly suddenly remembered something John had told her: Anderson's marriage had disintegrated in the wake of his brief affair with Sally Donovan. Donovan had promptly dumped him anyway, moved on to some bloke who worked in the Serious Crash Unit for eight months, then started up with the man she was now married to. Anderson obviously wasn't as okay with that as he might like people to believe.

"Have you ever _seen_ Matthew Lestrade?" she asked.

"Not up close, if I ever did." Anderson shuffled a ream of paperwork. "You know the detectives don't usually fraternise with us lower types, but for the odd Christmas party."

Molly suddenly flushed with outrage. Never mind how Anderson saw his own job and position, she had had a longer and more intensive education than Greg, John _or_ Sherlock, and _she_ was not a 'lower type.'

_I'm getting like… like Harry, or…!_

"Well, he's definitely Greg's son," was all she finally said. "You can see it a mile away."

He shrugged. "Okay."

There was an uncomfortable silence, broken by the scuffling sounds of Anderson shifting his paperwork around. He hadn't glanced at the contents, so obviously just keeping his hands busy. Molly, glancing down at those hands, saw that they were shaking in a way that unexpectedly made her stomach flip again. As a matter of fact, all of Philip Anderson was shaking; a nervous sort of buzz that reminded her of a hummingbird. She suddenly wondered if he'd done something stupid like overdosed on caffeine tablets, or, God forbid, something _really_ stupid and loaded up on speed to get him through the night.

"Well, so I'm here now," she said, twisting at her wedding ring so hard it left a pink trough on her finger. "So, um. You can go sleep."

"The Homicide and Serious Crimes Unit have probably racked up more enemies than anyone else, even without Sherlock's help," he went on, as if he hadn't even heard her remark and had forgotten what he had called her in for in the first place.

"Yes," she agreed. "I suppose they have. Anyway, you should probably-"

"Comes with the territory - people don't like it when you expose their crimes. But you know, I was thinking about this today. I mean, what if it's something… what if this isn't just 'oh Greg Lestrade happened to be the man in charge when my lowlife boyfriend was arrested for manslaughter and put away for twelve years'?"

She furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"

"What if someone's got a _good_ _reason_ to be doing this?"

By this time he was standing so close that she could feel his hot, sour breath on her face. She cleared her throat. "There's no good reason for anyone to do this," she said.

"Everyone knows what happened with that case out in Norfolk." Anderson tugged at his hair; an odd, off-kilter gesture that made Molly's heart jackhammer in her throat. "Maybe Greg isn't the person we all think he is. Maybe he's got _secrets_."

Molly leaned back into the counter, splaying her fingers for anything in reach - beaker, bottle, even a pipette would do - anything that could be used as a weapon. Just in case.

Her fingers met thin air.

"Philip," she said, as calmly as she could manage. "You're making me a bit uncomfortable now, actually."

He licked at his lips and tugged at his hair again for a second before shaking it off. "Sorry," he mumbled, backing off and returning to the counter. "Sorry. Just a bit… well, mmm. You know. Bit edgy."

She nodded. "You're very tired," she said, in tones two degrees away from ones she'd use on Charlie. "You go sleep. I'll keep an eye on this stuff and wake you if anything happens."


	13. Past the Size of Dreaming

"No-no-no-no-no! _Shit!"_

Sherlock, who had reached the bathroom doorway first, felt himself shoved roughly aside as Alan Peters charged past him. The older man dropped down on his knees beside the full bathtub with a force that must have hurt. His hands slapped against the sides of the bath and the water listed wildly as he lifted Detective Sergeant Lauren Jones, still dressed in a sopping white nightgown, clear of the waterline.

"Jesus," Peters gasped, prising open Jones's mouth with two fingers. "Help me!" he barked over his shoulder at Sherlock, who hadn't moved.

"Help you do what? She's dead," Sherlock said. "And any reasonably observant person could tell that she's been dead for some time. Put everything the way you found it and get out."

Peters, still clutching the dead woman, looked up at Sherlock. Then he put his hand on his mouth; an odd, almost juvenile gesture, as if he was going to vomit. "Oh, Christ," he said through his hand. "Merivale was right. You don't even care…"

"Hit me again and contaminate another crime scene, if it makes you feel better. It won't help her, though," Sherlock said. "Do you want to know why I've got an international reputation, with hundreds of solved cases behind me, and you don't? Because my methods work, and _I don't particularly care if you don't like me for using them._ She's dead. Caring will not bring her back to life. Caring about the integrity of the crime scene will help me find who killed her. Get out."

Peters looked at him in blank astonishment; then, realising that Sherlock meant it, he reached behind him for the door handle.

" _Psychopath_ ," he spat at him.

"Your originality knows no bounds," Sherlock remarked absently as he shut the door behind Peters with a _bang_ of contempt. From behind it, he could hear the muffled sounds of Peters storming back down the hall to where Detective Constable Matheson was still waiting for Merivale on the step. He wasn't particularly interested in their exchange and wouldn't have been able to hear it clearly if he had been, but he did register a number of words that weren't considered appropriate for polite company.

Back to business. He was a consulting detective, not a consulting social maven.

He kneeled carefully on the tiles - the _dry_ tiles.

_She wasn't drowned - unless she was drugged first. No struggle._

But looking at her face, serene and pale, he discarded drowning as a likelihood - there were no tell-tale flecks of foam and blood around the dead woman's lips. Drowning victims made for very unattractive corpses. But she did look a bit like…

He got back to his feet, tilting his head a little as he looked down at her again and reached for his phone.

It was a closely-guarded fact, even among those closest to him, that Sherlock Holmes had a deep and sincere appreciation for art. His tastes weren't even traditionally high-brow, as John Watson had found out when he realised Sherlock was downright jealous of his knack of being able to make hasty little sketches that showed an appreciation for light and perspective. John had then found out, through some maliciously brotherly comments of Mycroft's, that it was one of Sherlock's lifelong regrets that even his best efforts in that department hadn't produced painting skills that were anything more sophisticated than the sort of things displayed and sold at church fairs.

His artistic sensibilities were the reason Sherlock had even bothered to go after Turner's _The Falls of the Reichenbach_ after it had been stolen. The case itself had been completely ordinary, and he certainly didn't need a pair of diamond cufflinks that badly. He'd taken on a fair amount of stolen art cases in the time he'd been active as a detective, and all for the same reason: desecration of art upset him.

With an exact set of search terms, results weren't far off. He peered at the tiny image on his phone's touchscreen and smiled to himself.

Exactly. _Exactly_ as he'd thought.

* * *

Greg Lestrade was never able to fully remember just how both he and Jacob Dyer ended up crouched on the hood of his car.

"Did it get you?" Jake was saying, though for a few seconds it seemed like his voice was coming from the other end of the street. Lestrade felt his shoulder being jostled hard. "Sir? Greg, did it bite you?"

He looked down. In the dim light thrown by the front living-room window, he could see that the toe of his right shoe had a fleck of what looked like water on it. Beyond, just inside his range of vision, a glint of brown scales slithered underneath the front wheel of the car.

"Sir?"

"Um, maybe," he mumbled. "I don't think so. That'd hurt a lot, right?" He twitched his toes. They definitely didn't feel any different than they had ten minutes before.

"Well, I guess we found out what was in the sack when our friend chucked it into the car," Dyer said. "Bloody hell. I don't know about you, but that's taken about ten years off my life. I s'pose it slithered under the seat before we had a chance to see it in the dark."

 _Calm under pressure,_ Lestrade thought to himself in some surprise. He'd have never in a million years picked Dyer as someone with nerves of steel, even though there had to be a damn good reason why he'd been fast-tracked through the Uniforms in the first place. _Might have myself a temporary partner if Donovan ever decides to bugger off for six months of maternity leave._

He saw a movement in his peripheral vision and whipped his head around. Jake had his phone out and was scrolling through the touchscreen.

"Who are you calling?"

Jake looked like a kid caught with his hand in a sweet jar, and Lestrade conceded that it was just possible that he'd bitten his head off with that last question. "Uh, I'm calling the command unit," he ventured. "… Aren't I…?"

 _"Hell_ no." Greg pointed for emphasis. "You haven't been around long enough to know this, but you call anyone from work and we will never, and I mean never _ever_ , hear the end of this. Next time you see him, ask Mickey Varland why everyone in the Sexual Crimes Taskforce still calls him Pissy-Legs." He took a breath. "Um," he said. "Call Hayley's mobile, I guess. I'd give her a yell, but…" He glanced over his shoulder at the neighbours' house.

Jake gave a long sigh. "You're the boss," he muttered, much as if to say that he would much rather Greg Lestrade wasn't his boss at that particular moment. He obediently navigated through to Hayley's number and put the phone to his ear, waiting for her to pick up. For a few seconds it was so quiet that Lestrade could hear the buzz of the open line. He caught another glimpse of the snake moving in his peripheral vision, and took another slow, deep breath.

Across the street, the curtains started twitching again. And while Anita Braach was never going to see him visibly _panicking_ about a snake coiled around his car tyres, she wasn't going to see him actually get off the car when he couldn't see where the bloody thing was.

"Hayls," Jake said into the phone. "I need you to do something for me. Get a torch and come out front, but don't come down the stairs until I explain. Okay?"

As Jake put the phone down and they waited, Greg pondered whether Hayley was really cut out to be the long-term partner of a homicide detective. All signs pointed to _yes_. The kid could be (and frequently was) a pain in the arse, but she also knew when to stop being one and just do whatever loony thing she was asked to do. In half a minute the front door creaked open and she stepped hesitantly out. Seeing her father and boyfriend still on the hood of the car, she stopped in amazement.

"What are you -"

"Don't come closer," Lestrade said, deciding it was high time that he took charge of the situation, or at least do something more useful than an impression of Man Turned to Stone. "Just turn the torch on and check under the car for me."

Both men winced as Hayley turned the torch on and the beam blinded them. She dipped the torch and swept the beam under the car, like a warship's searchlight. Then she froze.

"That's… yeah. That's a snake," she said dully, as well she might under the shock of suddenly seeing one in the middle of suburban London. "Um. If it was a squirrel or something, I was about to give both of you heaps for being such sissies. Okay. Is the shovel still stood near the back door, Dad?"

It was a couple of seconds before Greg realised why Hayley wanted a shovel to deal with an angry snake. "I thought you were a vegetarian!"

"I'm not planning on eating it afterwards," she said grimly.

"No, don't you dare," Jake broke in, waving his arm wildly at her with more animation than Lestrade thought he'd ever seen out of him. "Good chance it'll bite you, and if you kill it, you're probably breaking about fifteen million Exotic Animals laws and will be destroying a key piece of evidence. It's a frigging cobra. You know, native to _Africa._ It didn't get here by accident!"

"Are you seriously expecting me to just fold my arms and do nothing while you two are stuck on the car because of that thing? You know snakes can _climb_ , right?"

"Hayley, I'm giving you an ORDER!"

"Give up, mate," Greg mumbled, watching Hayley retreat back into the house and close the front door behind her with a wilful _bang_. "Unless you're going for reverse psychology. You've met her mother, right?"

Within half a minute Hayley was back, not a shovel, but a broom. She charged down the front steps and over to the car, poked the non-business end under the car gingerly, then jumped back so abruptly that Greg's first thought was that she'd been bitten. "Go," she barked. "Quick!"

He jumped off onto the driveway and hit the ground running, turning at the step to see that both Jake and Hayley had managed to come off okay. Much to his annoyance, he found Jake by Hayley's side. They were both crouched beside the car and Hayley was poking the snake with the broom again, even though there was now no good reason on earth for her to be doing so. A shadow moved from behind the front wheel, and he thought for a second that he could hear a low hiss.

"Right, maybe stop poking the snake now," he said.

"She's sort of cute when she's angry," Hayley protested.

"Yes, lovely. Just, um, call… the zoo, I guess? Hopefully they've got an after-hours number." _Or we really will have to call the local force._ He took a few steps forward. If Jacob Dyer wasn't bothered by an angry snake, he wasn't going to be bothered, either. _"_ Dyer," he said, "you ever tell anyone about this, and you'll regret it. I know people who'd help me hide your body."

"Like Sherlock Holmes, sir?" Jake suggested, unconcerned by Lestrade's glare.

Lestrade inwardly groaned. Jones - one of his most hard-working, fair-minded colleagues - was likely dead. And now someone had dumped a live snake in his car. Perhaps it was time to concede that if Sherlock said Matthew was safe, he was.

* * *

Something was wrong.

June Merivale, parking her car on the kerb outside the Jones residence and getting out, could sense it immediately - something off-kilter and strange, beyond the fact that she was almost certain she was about to enter the scene of a violent crime. Then she realised what it was. She'd expected to see Dave Matheson posted at the front door as a handover officer, to wait for her and secure the scene from onlookers or other interested parties. But she hadn't expected to see Alan Peters standing there with him as well, and no Sherlock Holmes in sight. Peters' shirt and jacket were both drenched.

"Oh, my God," she said as she made her way up the front steps.

"Woman's body found in the bathtub, Marm," Matheson said stiffly, after seeing that Peters wasn't going to do the honours. "Believed to be the occupant, but, um…"

"And you've let Holmes frolick about in there with her, and neither of you are even _supervising_ him. What did I tell you about securing the scene?"

"We couldn't stop him, Marm-"

Merivale resisted the urge to remind Matheson that part of his job involved stopping unauthorised breaching of a crime scene. She was too angry at the real culprit. She stormed into the house and down the hall to where bright orange light flooded out from an open door. Sherlock, kneeling on the floor beside the bath, did not even look up as she made her less-than-silent entrance.

"Sherlock Holmes, this is a crime scene!"

"No," he said absently over his shoulder. "You just walked your footprints all the way through a crime scene. She wasn't killed here. She was killed in the hall." He fumbled for the buttons on the front of the dead woman's sopping nightgown and drew them down a little. "Stab wounds," he said, pointing to the gaping rents in the skin just below her collarbone and over her breasts. "Eight… no, perhaps nine. Could you not smell it as you came through? Bleach. He stabbed her, then cleaned up before putting her here for us to find."

She glanced back into the hall for a second. "Sherlock," she said. "I'm trying to give you a chance, here, because it looks like you were right about the Trent girl. But for fuck's sake, what are you doing in here?"

He finally looked up. "How else was I meant to get a look at the original crime scene before ten forensic techs made a mess of it?" he honestly wanted to know. He waved his phone at her. "I've got photographs, if that's going to help, but I doubt it."

"Right," she sighed. "Gimme." But instead of the views of the hall floor that she expected, the touchscreen of Sherlock's phone displayed the image of a painting. A woman with flowing red hair, lying clothed in a river. Water lilies and other lush flowers adorned her dress and hair, and her eyes and mouth were both slightly open. It was difficult to tell if the painting was of a living woman or a corpse.

"What's this?" she asked.

 _"Hamlet_ this time," he muttered. "His girlfriend Ophelia drowned herself - or she slipped into the river and was too mad to get herself back out again. Interpretations differ. That's an 1861 pre-Raphaelite painting by John Everett Millais. You can see the similarities."

Merivale looked down at the woman who had once been Detective Sergeant Lauren Ann Jones. Jones didn't have the same purity of outline as Millais' model, nor the same tint of flame-coloured hair, but the effect was similar. Distractedly, she leaned forward to pull the soaking nightgown up over Jones's breasts again. If it'd been her lying dead in a bath, the last thing she'd want is for a team of detectives to see her naked if they didn't have to.

"But she didn't drown," she said. "She was stabbed - probably with a weapon he brought and took home with him, unless he washed it clean and put it back in the kitchen." She mentally flinched. _Well done, June. You've just given him the idea of going through the kitchen before forensics can have a look. "_ Why does he keep changing his MO?" she asked him. "Killers don't normally do that. It's not safe to start experimenting when you never know if someone's going to walk in on you or what. There's those who have a specific fetish, but it's not the same thing. Say our man gets his jollies making girls go splat by pushing them off a building."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Celeste wasn't pushed."

"Okay, smart-arse, but that wasn't my point. If it makes your little obsessive tendencies feel better, let's say he's a control freak who delights in forcing her to step off a building of his own accord. Given that, and all the alcohol and drugs she'd had, I'm astonished that the pathology report doesn't say she was raped."

"That doesn't mean she wasn't. If she was drugged she wouldn't have struggled, and he may have been wearing a condom."

"All right, but what I'm getting at is, if you're into that kind of perversion, why in God's name would you switch to drowning people in sinks, or stabbing them to bits and THEN dumping them into a bath? Not to mention the amount of time it would have taken to clean up in the hall."

"There's no carpeting there."

She smiled. "I can tell you don't have kids," she said. "No, there isn't. But blood doesn't come off wallpaper very well. I'm sure Forensics are going to rip up the floorboards and find blood in between them, but for all that, he's done a remarkable clean-up job. It would have taken him ages. Over an hour, perhaps."

For all the crime scenes that Sherlock had attended, it had never occurred to him to wonder about the cleanup job after everything had been sorted out.

"Sorry," he blinked. "Did you just say that having children acquaints you with the effect of bloodstains on wallpaper?"

She smiled grimly. "Let's just say that my sons don't always get along. There was a bust-up one Christmas. Teeth were lost. Anyway," she went on, cutting Sherlock off open-mouthed on the verge of interrupting. "So let's say you're the murderer. You come in, stab your victim and then put her in the bath. There's not a lot of blood in the water, so you also wash her off at least once, pulled the plug and refilled the tub. And then, for some reason known only to God, you spend a good couple of hours cleaning up after yourself when you could just have throttled her or something."

Sherlock yanked up the dead woman's hand. "Look," he said.

"Tissue under the fingernails," Merivale said. "Our man will be pretty scratched up, then."

Sherlock nodded. "This killer spent time cleaning up the hall and putting her in the bath, but left his own tissue - his DNA - under her fingernails for us to find."

"Maybe he didn't realise? I mean, in the heat of the moment, the adrenaline - it's possible that he didn't even realise he was bleeding until he'd already left the scene and it was too late to do anything about it."

"Oh, for God's sake, stop being stupid. You said yourself: he spent over an hour cleaning up. No adrenaline rush lasts that long. He'd have noticed. And he left this here on purpose."

In the silence that followed, a fat drop of water bulged out of the faucet and dropped into the tub with a soft _plink._ Merivale asked, "Why?"

"Because," Sherlock said, "he doesn't care if he gets caught. Which means if he's got unfinished business, he's going to finish it soon."


	14. Foul is Fair

Dennie Finn was corpulent and the wrong side of fifty, wearing an untucked blue denim shirt and trousers that had probably fit him ten pounds ago. But, Lestrade reflected, in all fairness, _he_ probably didn't look much like Mr. GQ either when he rolled out of bed at four in the morning to attend an incident. If the London Zoo's reptile care services said that this guy was an expert in his field, that was good enough for him.

"Oh, yes," Dennie said jubilantly, voice muffled by the car door as he stooped to peep under the car. From where he was standing, Greg couldn't see the snake, but he heard a low, threatening hiss. "Oh, look at you, girl. You're beautiful, aren't you?"

"Beautiful?" Greg huffed.

"Gorgeous. Look at her colour. Egyptian Cobra, looks like - banded cobra. She's not real happy though, is she? Hang on a tick, I'll get her sorted out and then we'll jabber about it."

Greg thought for a second whether it would be necessary to explain that the beautiful banded cobra wasn't happy because he had reflexively kicked her, then decided to leave that detail out. After all, the guy had said she was unhappy, not _dying_.

Dennie pulled a long-handled implement out of the back of his own car. It had a metal hook on one end that reminded Greg, for a moment, of the shepherd's crook used to yank bad performers offstage in old Bugs Bunny cartoons. He forced himself not to flinch as Dennie used the business end of the crook to yank the snake toward himself. She uncoiled like lightning and hissed again, but before she could go on the attack he'd used the stick to lift her into a waiting sack.

"There we go," he said, knotting the thick hessian sack and apparently unconcerned about the furious movement from within it. "She'll be okay."

"Oh, good, I'm so relieved," Greg muttered.

"Reptiles are diurnal - they have to be, 'cause they've got cold blood, you know? It means they get a bit pissed off if you suddenly shine a light on them. And if you stick them somewhere dark, like the inside of a sack, they think it's night-time and curl up and go to sleep. I love them, but I'm not going to tell you they're bright."

"An escaped pet?"

Dennie shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "I mean, I've never come across anyone with a snake _this_ exotic, but, you know, there are people who are collectors."

"It's legal?" Lestrade had no interest in, and therefore little knowledge of, laws surrounding keeping exotic animals as pets.

"Sure, it can be, if you apply to the right people and get the right paperwork. When you and I were kids, there were rich people wandering around Notting Hill with leopards on leashes and baboons to answer the front door for them."

A sudden memory loomed up in Greg Lestrade's mind. He'd been a very young child - maybe five or six - in the days when Carnaby Street had still been swinging. His Aunt Kathy had taken him to London for a treat, and it had been a day of wonder for an easygoing boy whose idea of a perfect life was ice cream every day and Doctor Who on telly. When he'd expressed understandable skepticism about whether a person could really buy _anything_ from Harrods, she'd insisted: _no, Greggy, it's true. You could buy a gorilla from Harrods if you wanted, or even a lion. Imagine that! Going to the shops to buy a lion!_

It had become a staple schoolboy fantasy for a year or two after that: one day, when he was all grown up, he was going straight to Harrods to buy a lion. Even though he hadn't the faintest clue what he would do with it after he bought it.

"So where are you taking it now?" he asked Dennie. "Sorry, but since it was chucked in my car, and..." He stopped before he could mention the note. Even though it wasn't Shakespeare, it was still something he didn't want the media to get their teeth into. "It was thrown into my car," he said again, pointing to the broken window. "Which is a crime, last time I checked, and if this thing's been stolen or smuggled, that's a crime, too. I'll send officers over to pick it up. What address?"

Dennie told him, though he seemed disappointed that his new acquisition was to be taken from him so soon. "They'll look after her, right?" he said wistfully. "I mean, I don't reckon there's a fully-stocked terrarium in every police station, you know?"

"You can figure that out with the officers when they come round. It might be able to stay with you. I don't know. It's not staying here, anyway."

* * *

 

Melissa Brennan was having a very bad ten minutes.

She'd arrived on the scene of the Jones murder only a little behind Merivale, who reflected that Brennan must be able to drive like a demon to be able to keep up with her when she didn't even know the area. It hadn't taken long to convince the detectives at the door to let her in, even though she didn't _look_ like a forensic psychologist and they'd never seen her before.

The smell hadn't given anything away. Bleach. Nothing offensive. She'd unsuspectingly greeted Merivale and joined her and Sherlock in the bathroom - and then, looking down at the dead woman still lying _in situ_ in the tub, had suddenly become unwell. Unwell enough that she was now sitting on the toilet lid, her forehead on her knees, taking deep breaths. Sherlock was, of course, standing next to the bath looking at her as if she were growing some interesting new species of bacteria, but June Merivale had got down beside her and put one hand on her shoulder.

"Come on, love," she said, and Sherlock once again thought of the toddler and his mother in Smithfield. "Chin up. She's not in pain or anything." She paused. "You've never seen a dead body before?"

"Not like that," Melissa admitted, though neither Merivale nor Sherlock would have classified the body in the bath as graphic.

"Haven't finished your probation, have you?"

Melissa shook her head, and Sherlock refrained from telling Merivale that Melissa had still been working on her PhD when Greg had met her, and she had only just started her probationary work.

"Sherlock," Melissa said, "if... I mean, if you... Greg..."

"I am the soul of discretion," Sherlock said, without any hint of sarcasm or mischief.

Melissa opened her mouth to say something else, but before she could, they all heard an almighty crash from the front of the house and at least two voices - male, raised in urgency, if no real anger. And then a jagged, drawn-out scream. The sound of a man inviting all the demons in hell to descend upon him and put him out of his misery.

Sherlock looked at Merivale.

"Colin McGowan," she said quietly. "Jones's partner. He's been living here with her for four years."

"How do you know?"

"He's her next of kin on her employee file. I used it to get her phone number earlier. Teaches English Literature at the University of London. I think he could teach us a thing or two about Shakespeare. We need to interview him. As soon as he calms down - it can't wait."

Melissa looked at her. "Oh," she said, as the penny dropped. "You can take your time cleaning up after a murder if it's your own house and you _know_ nobody's going to interrupt you."

"Exactly. Sherlock..." Merivale, helping Melissa to her feet, turned to him. "God help me, I'm going to regret this," she said, "especially since you're still technically in custody. But I'd like you to sit in with us, please."

From the front step, they heard another howl of anguish. Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because you're a man."

Sherlock looked more confused than ever.

"I just want you to catch his arm if he takes a swing at me," she said.

"Oh," he said. "Yes. I - I suppose I could do that, yes."

It was ten or fifteen minutes before Colin McGowan was coherent enough to be interviewed. There really wasn't enough room in the kitchen and the entire house was now an active crime scene being combed over by the forensics team, so Merivale led the way out to one of the cars and opened it, letting McGowan get in and sit down. Melissa, almost on auto-pilot, climbed in to sit on the other side of him but Sherlock, mindful of his role to grab McGowan's hand if he tried to swing at Merivale, remained standing with one hand resting on the door. He had no idea how he was supposed to prevent it if McGowan decided to punch Melissa.

But it seemed as if McGowan's anger had sparked up, exploded, and burned out on its own fuel. The fortyish academic had a sleepy demeanour that reminded Sherlock, before he could help it, of an old illustration of the dormouse from Alice's Adventures Underground. There was nothing remarkable about McGowan. Thinning hair, decidedly paunchy. An odd match for Lauren Jones, who was nearly six foot tall, blonde, bronze-limbed and outdoorsy.

At least, she had been.

Someone had given McGowan a tissue, and he was wringing it into a tight cigar shape in his hands, as if testing how far the tissue paper could be pulled before it gave out.

"Colin," Sherlock said before anyone else had a chance to. He held one hand out to McGowan, who looked at it in hesitation for a few seconds before giving it a quick pump. "Is it OK if I call you Colin? I'm Sherlock Holmes. Hi."

Melissa shot Merivale a glance before she could stop herself. Sherlock had not only completely changed his accent, he'd also changed his body language and the timbre of his voice. The world had apparently lost a fine actor the day Sherlock Holmes decided to be a detective.

"Not really in the mood for a chat right now, sorry," McGowan rasped.

"I know. We're sorry we have to ask questions so quick." Merivale's tones implied a _but_ that never came. "Where've you been, Colin?" she asked him instead.

"The pub, obviously," Sherlock interrupted before McGowan could speak. "It's nearly an hour past closing time, and he reeks of beer. Where he was isn't important right now. Mr. McGowan, what can you tell me about Hamlet?"

"Hamlet?" McGowan repeated. "You mean, the play?"

"You've got a lot of friends down at the pub named _Hamlet_ , have you?"

McGowan glared at him for a few seconds. "I've just got home and found the woman I wanted to marry got murdered," he said. "So I'd really appreciate you _not_ being an arsehole, yeah."

Sherlock threw his hands up in good-natured acquiesce, but he glanced at Merivale again and hoped she'd noted it on her own: Colin McGowan's grammar wasn't instinctive, and his vowel sounds became distinctly Glaswegian when he was upset.

If Merivale had noted it, nothing in her expression betrayed it. "Did Lauren say anything to you in the last few days about a case we've got active?" she asked gently. McGowan wiped his nose on his sleeve again.

"Well, I knew you had one," he said. "I thought it might have something to do with that copper that got murdered a couple of days back, but she didn't tell me anything about it. Never does. I don't normally ask."

"Did she seem unusually apprehensive about something to do with this one? Preoccupied? Maybe even afraid of someone?"

McGowan shook his head.

"Had any odd visitors recently?"

He thought about this one. "No," he said. "I mean, we're not recluses. We've got lives..." He trailed off, as if the reality of it had only just hit him: Lauren didn't have a life anymore. "But, uh, the only visitors we've had over to the flat in a week have been her brother and mine. That's not odd. They come over all the time-"

"That's not important either," Sherlock huffed. "But this is: Colin, let's go back to Hamlet. Tell me about Ophelia. How did she die?"

McGowan looked at Sherlock as if he were insane. "What the fuck does that have to do with-"

"Just answer, please. You've taught it at the university, surely."

The tissue in McGowan's hands suddenly snapped, and he dropped it into his lap. "Hard to say," he finally said. "Most productions go with her drowning herself, but Gertrude doesn't say for sure she did it on purpose. Ophelia was deranged by that point. She was picking flowers by the river... might've leaned too far out, fell in, was too mad to get herself out again. Suicide was a sin in Shakespeare's day, meant you were going straight to hell, so he probably didn't want to lay it down like that as a fact. But what-"

"Okay, I've heard enough." Sherlock rose, but before he could say anything further, his phone rang. Excusing himself, he plucked it out of his pocket and wandered back toward the house to answer it.

"You got anywhere you can stay tonight, Colin?" Merivale asked him.

McGowan wrung at each finger in turn. "Uh, yeah," he muttered, giving another sniff. "I s'pose I could stay at my brother's house..."

"Okay," she said, getting up. "Come with me, and I'm going to introduce you to one of my detectives, Sarah Draper. Sarah's going to be your Family Liaison officer. She'll be available to answer any questions you might have about what's happening with the case, as well as arrange for family to be contacted, accommodation if you need it, things like that..." She stopped short. Both she and Melissa had just heard Sherlock say, "Are you all right?"

They looked at each other, and Melissa got out of her side of the car and into Sherlock's line of sight, gesturing to him with one hand. But he was clearly far away in thought. "No," he said into the phone. "Neither of you...? Hayley...?"

There was a long pause. Sherlock took a deep breath.

"We're coming back now," he said. "Wait for me."

Without bothering to say goodbye, he hung up the phone and put it back in his pocket. It was only then that he turned to Melissa, as if he'd only just noticed she was there. "That was Greg," he said. "There's been an incident there, just after we left."

"An incident?"

Sherlock remembered Melissa's reaction to the news that Greg had been in a fire at Borley, even though Greg had made that call himself and assured her that he was perfectly safe. "He's all right," he said. "But we need to leave. I'm driving." He pulled Melissa's keys out of her jeans pocket, scrunching them almost violently into the palm of his hand.

"You've got my permission to go," Merivale said, rolling her eyes.

"Yes, fine." Sherlock was no longer listening. "Don't waste time chasing leads here, Merivale. I'll call when I can."

He turned to head toward Melissa's car, but Merivale darted forward and clutched at the sleeve of his coat. He stopped, drawing his hand back as if she'd bitten at him.

"I can see why Greg works with you now," she said.

He looked at her.

"Stay safe." She let go of his hand and went back to the car where McGowan was waiting for her.

* * *

When Sherlock and Melissa returned to the house, they found Greg and Jake with Hayley in the kitchen. No sign of any snake. In the meantime, John had come home from dropping Molly off at Barts. They met him on the doorstep and came in together. Charlie was asleep against his shoulder, and he seemed reluctant to put her down anywhere, as if he didn't quite believe the snake had been apprehended.

"Not McGowan," Sherlock announced as he entered the kitchen.

"Who's-"

"Keep up, John - Jones's partner. Shook my hand. There were no defensive wounds. And when I asked him about Hamlet, he had no idea what I was talking about - the Shakespeare link hasn't been leaked to the press. His answer when I asked whether he thought Ophelia drowned herself or whether it was an accident was particularly enlightening. Like a good academic, he considered the text and the context, and didn't bring any of his own assumptions into it. He had no idea I was referring to his partner. Lestrade, the note left in your car's just changed the case more than the snake. Have you heard of William Hierens?"

Lestrade, in mental whiplash from the breakneck speed at which Sherlock had moved from Ophelia to William Hierens, thought back for a few seconds.

"No, it's an historical case, Lestrade. Before you were born."

"Oh," he finally said. "He wasn't that kid in America, with the lipstick?"

Sherlock nodded. "In December of 1945, Hierens, who was seventeen, stabbed a divorcee named Frances Brown in her apartment in Chicago. He wrote on the wall in her lipstick: For heavens sake catch me before I kill more I cannot control myself. The parallels here are obvious."

Lestrade raised one eyebrow. "You think the killer sent that message, saying 'I've done something I really shouldn't have, here, straighten it out before she dies'?"

Sherlock bit his lip, deep in thought. "I don't know," he finally said unhappily. "I don't understand the connection between the note and Jones's murder. Why write "help her" after attacking Jones? Besides, by the time that note was left, Jones had been dead for at least two hours. She was well beyond help, and the killer would have known that."

"A taunt?"

If Sherlock's ego had permitted it, he would have shrugged.

"Who was the snake intended for?" Lestrade continued.

"You," Sherlock said. "It was dumped in your car - when both Melissa's and Dyer's were parked nearby. Obvious."

"I look like Cleopatra, do I?"

"I think we've established that the killer isn't interested in exact mock-ups of Shakespeare. He didn't even bother leaving a note with Lauren Jones."

"Yeah, that was rude of him," Greg muttered.

"Celeste's murder was neatly done. The killer was prepared enough to bring their own paper and nail to the scene. But remember - it was Thompson who was killed first, and the wine came from wine boxes in his own refrigerator."

"Maybe the killer had visited the house before, and knew they were going to be there," John suggested.

"It's possible. But Thompson was drowned in _water._ Almost as if it were a blitz attack with no preparation, and the idea of staging it to look like something out of a Shakespearean play only occurred to them after. If you check with forensics, I think they'll confirm that the note left with Thompson was written on his own notepaper, with his own pen, after he was dead. But the one on Celeste would have to have been brought to the crime scene. All prepared."

"So what's that mean?"

"It means that the use of Shakespeare has nothing to do with the case, except to prove we're looking for someone able to Google Sparks Notes on Shakespeare."

"Which is pretty much everybody," John muttered, thinking back to Molly's remark when she'd Googled the Macbeth reference: you might have thought of it yourself, if you weren't so old-fashioned. _Old-fashioned? Can't a man even read an actual newspaper these days without getting stick for it from his wife?_

"There's one thing I don't understand," Sherlock continued.

"Oh, my God," John said. "Someone alert the press, quick."

"Oh, shut up. What I'm trying to say is, Celeste and Thompson were killed in a decisive, purposeful way. Nothing was left to chance. This killer is changing their MO with every murder, but why would they regress from stabbing someone to death to putting a snake in their car and leaving it entirely to chance, firstly that they'd be bitten, and secondly, that they wouldn't be able to access medical help before they died? As a murder technique, it's alarmingly ineffective." Sherlock took a breath. "Either way, the only solution I can see for this problem is this: We let the press run a story about your tragic death by snakebite, and then we wait for the killer to get confident and make a mistake."

"Sorry," Greg said. "What?"

"You heard what I said. From now on, the only people who know you're not dead are in this room." He paused. "And, I suppose, we should include Molly in that. I trust she can keep a secret."

John coughed.

"Wait," Greg said. "Wait... you mean you're going to tell my mother I'm dead? My _mother_ , Sherlock. I hate to say it, but even after all this time, I'm still kind of fond of the old bat. I don't want her to keel over and actually die over this."

Sherlock shook his head. "There's no point in putting out a press release if you're going to tell a dozen people it's not true. People talk. They can't help themselves. The only reason I'm suggesting we tell Molly you're not dead is because John couldn't tell her a convincing lie if his life depended on it."

Lestrade felt the implication like a kick to the chest: if Matthew was somewhere he had access to newspapers and telly, he'd be one of the first to hear that his father had died. He shook his head. "No. Might be all right for sociopaths, but I can't let my family think I'm dead."

"It can cause complications, I'll grant you." Sherlock spoke without smiling. "But actually doing it is surprisingly simple. Despite my reputation, I don't condone staging a suicide for fun. This is life or death. The only way we can keep you safe for now is to pretend their murder attempt succeeded. They won't try to kill a dead man."

"Greg," Melissa spoke up. "He's right, you know. Whether the killer is trying to get at your family, your team, or both, you're the ultimate target. If they think they've succeeded, it's possible the only person who will die next is the killer."

"Why the killer?"

"People who go on murder sprees of this level and speed usually end them by committing suicide." Melissa sounded matter-of-fact. "Even if they don't go to that extreme, they're likely to move out in the open over something like this. It might be the best chance we have of catching them."

Lestrade thought this one over in silence.

"If you think it'll help, do what you need to do," he said.


	15. All the Perfumes of Arabia

_Greg's not dead. Don't tell anyone - SH_

Today 8:42am

_Delete both my messages - SH_

Today 8:43am

Molly had been in the lift, on her way back from a canteen run for breakfast and juggling hot tea and a bacon sandwich, when her phone had bleeped twice in short succession. She'd pulled it out of her pocket immediately - it might be John, about Charlie. Then she let the lift doors close on her again as she stood reading both messages over.

_Are you still in custody?_

Today 8:47am

_Technically, yes. - SH_

Today 8:47am

Molly took a deep breath. Then she deleted all of Sherlock's messages from her inbox and, to make doubly sure, deleted her own from the outbox as well. The lift doors opened and she shut them again, then mashed her palm against the ground-floor button to stop the compartment from going anywhere.

There was a reason Sherlock's bolt-hole was so close to where Molly worked.

There was at least one other, much closer to New Scotland Yard headquarters, but she didn't know where that one was. He used it for when he needed Greg to have unrestricted access to it, so there was no chance he'd taken Matthew there. She had no way of telling for sure where Sherlock had taken Matthew. But had there been anything… implied… in Sherlock's texts? She'd go and see. If Matthew _wasn't_ at the Cock Lane bedsit, then the matter was out of her hands.

None of the tests Anderson had set up were at a stage where they needed to be interfered with for at least an hour, and Anderson himself was in one of the heaviest sleeps she'd ever seen on the sofa in the vestibule. He hadn't moved in hours. It was too bad that she wasn't even _working_ at Barts that morning, and she wondered if Sherlock even knew that, since he'd been "technically" in custody all night. But the distance was no matter - a short bus trip and then a brisk walk she sorely needed to perk up after being in the fluorescent-lit tech lab at New Scotland Yard headquarters almost all night. The rain had broken up in the early hours, but low-hanging, grey clouds scudded across the morning sky, and as she stepped into Snow Hill, the pavements shone in the low orange sunlight.

On reaching the right door, she tapped on the door lightly with her knuckles. There was no reply, and she gave a more forceful rap. This time she heard a furtive squeak, as if someone had just risen from a bed or an armchair.

"Matthew," she whispered into the crack of the door-frame. "It's Molly. Could you open the door, please?"

But behind the door, all was stillness. Matthew was close behind it - so close that she could almost hear the whisp of his breath, the thud of his heart. Molly set the shopping bag down on the step and lay her cheek against the door, listening for a few seconds to those slight breaths and the hum of the refrigerator behind them. Was he hurt? Was he crying? She didn't know if it was normal for a boy his age to be crying behind there, but if Charlie…

 _Just don't check this morning's news. Please._ Despite Sherlock's texts, the early news bulletin reporting Greg's death had been harrowing to watch, bringing back a flood of painful memories from when the reported death had been Sherlock's. She was certain that Sherlock wouldn't ever make the mistake again of drawing her into a secret and leaving John out of it. But did Melissa think Greg had died, too?

"Matthew," she said. "Sherlock's still with the police. So… he asked me to come and make sure you were all right."

No answer.

"I thought…" she struggled. "I thought you might need some things. I'm going to leave them on the doorstep for you, okay? Just… um."

Still no answer.

"I'll be at work tomorrow," she offered. "I'll come over again when I'm finished. Six o'clock. You might want to talk to me then."

Unlikely, but it was all she could do to try. Rustling the shopping bag as if to remind Matthew it was there, she turned on one heel and quickly walked away.

It was only once she'd returned to the NSY lab that Molly remembered she had no electronic pass to get back into it. After nearly five minutes of increasingly desperate knocking on the door, she'd succeeded in waking Anderson. He blearily got up and let her in.

"Something wrong with your pass?" he asked sleepily, heaving sour, hot breath into her face.

"I don't have one," she faltered, taking a step back. "I'm so sorry. I forgot. I'm so used to having one where I work…"

But Anderson did not seem interested in her long-winded explanation of why she'd woken him to let her in. He shrugged her off, curled back up on the sofa and quickly started snoring again.

And then it hit Molly like a freight train.

Shaking with a surge of nerves, she enclosed herself into the main lab - checking that everything was still humming away and hadn't self-destructed - then pulled her phone out and ducked behind the counter, as if she were being ambushed. In a few seconds, John picked up.

"Just so we're being honest," she blurted out, "I know where Matthew is. Please don't ask me to tell you."

Since Sherlock's return, Molly had vowed she'd never keep a secret from John again - provided he asked her to disclose it. Once or twice since, though, she'd compromised with _I'll tell you if you ask me. Please don't ask me._

John was silent on the line for a few seconds. "Okay," he finally said. "Ask no secrets, be told no lies. Got it. Is he okay?"

"I don't know… I… I don't know. I left him some money and food and toothpaste and… John, there's something I need to talk to you about."

"Sure, talk to me." John sounded like he was stifling a yawn into his hand.

"How do we know Anderson was in the lab all that time?"

There was a dull thud on the line, as if John had either opened or closed a door. "Sorry," he said, "what?"

"Well, it's just he said he'd been in the lab for eighteen hours straight when he called me. I suppose he could have been. But if he was working on his own, he might _not_ have been. He might have… been able to come in and out without being seen."

"There's got to be security footage of it, though, right? I mean, it's New Scotland Yard-"

She nodded, temporarily forgetting that he couldn't see her. "And there's also his electronic pass," she said. "He could get out of the lab without it - you know, in case there was a fire or something - but not back in again. Hospital security should be able to tell us whether he was really here the whole time…" She bit her lip. "It probably doesn't mean anything," she fumbled. "I mean, it doesn't mean he was involved in anything that's happened.. He probably wasn't. He's… I just thought. You know."

"Molly," John said. "Is he still there with you?"

"He's asleep." She peeped through the vestibule doors out to where Anderson lay, rock-like. _Was_ he asleep? His gaping maw and gurgling snores sounded almost like a parody of a man asleep, instead of a real one.

"All right," John said. "I'll let Sherlock and Greg know about the passes; see what they think. Can you hold on for…" He paused. "For half an hour, give or take? Merivale's got Caitlin Trent in for an interview at half-past nine, and wants Sherlock and me to be there for that." He paused. "For some reason."

* * *

Merivale reached for the little Tupperware container where pods of machine coffee were kept. Then, at the last second, her hand veered off and came to rest on the shiny lid of a canister instead. _No. The little cow can have instant roast._

Caitlin Eleanor Trent, aged seventeen, was sitting in Interview Room Two. Room One was reserved for the most intractable, hardened interviewees. The windows were smaller and higher, and it contained little more than a table and two chairs, all bolted to the floor in case someone decided to throw them. But Room Two was more for witnesses, grieving families, and young ones. It was painted a manic shade of yellow and had wide, low sofas in red and blue. As a minor, Caitlin was accompanied by her stepfather, a shrivelled little man who had introduced himself as Robert Trent. Also in there with her, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson were waiting.

Despite news that morning of Lestrade's death, they'd both made it in as requested.

Other close colleagues of the late Greg Lestrade had proved unavailable for comment. Det. Constable Jacob Dyer's phone was off, and if that hadn't been enough to send Merivale into a rage, Det. Sergeant Sally Donovan had answered _her_ phone and told her to fuck off. Her number was blocked - she knew, because she'd used Alan Peters's mobile to call back and Donovan had answered it and asked her if she had trouble understanding the words "fuck" and "off". And then she'd blocked Peters's number, too.

To her dismay, she was still so angry at Greg - Greg, who was a nice guy and a good detective, everyone had liked him, Greg who was _dead_ \- that she was close to breathing fire. _What the hell was he thinking, opening the car door before Forensics got to it? He knew. He knew to never, ever…_

 _No._ She pushed those thoughts aside. Whatever Greg Lestrade thought he was doing poking around in the car, he was dead. Death wasn't a reasonable or expected outcome of opening your bloody car door. Greg was a victim. And you never blamed the victim.

"Need a hand?"

She whipped around, startled. But it was only John Watson, haggard under the fluorescent lights, standing in the tea-room doorway. His hands were tucked under his arms.

"Oh," she said. "Yes. Thanks." She handed him her own coffee and his, and picked up the cups she'd prepared for Sherlock, Robert and Caitlin. "Before we go in," she said, "you've had a look at her now. Definitely not our snake-charmer?"

John shook his head. "I mean, I only saw him for a second," he said. "It wasn't her, though."

"If she was wearing a hood-"

"Wasn't her."

"What about…" She put down her hot cups and led John out to the incident room, rifling through papers on the desk for half a minute. "What about him?" she asked, almost desperately, shoving an 8 x 12 photograph at John. He obligingly peered at it.

"Nope." He gave it back to her. "Definitely not him, either."

Merivale sighed as she took the photograph back and laid it in the middle of the pile. In any case, Edward Trent had no motive either, and he had an alibi, of sorts - his mother had said he had been with her all night, and there was no reason to think she was lying. Looking up, she saw John's gaze fixed on the nearby whiteboard. At six-thirty that morning, someone had added "Det. Greg Lestrade" to the list of victims on the left side of the board.

"I'm so sorry, John," she said, calling him by his first name for the first time.

"Yeah." John's face twitched. "Me too."

"Are you ready to do this?"

He nodded, and she led him back to Interview Room Two, swinging by the kitchenette on the way to gather up the coffees. Though, she reflected as she set one down in front of him, this was going to be the very last time she ever made Sherlock Holmes a cuppa. After the preliminaries of the interview were over with, and Caitlin had grunted that she understood what was happening, Merivale slapped a heavy morning newspaper down on the desk between them so hard that it almost bounced.

"Someone threw a live snake into Matthew's dad's car last night," she said. "An Egyptian Cobra. He didn't see it when he first got in, and it bit him."

She paused, trying to gauge the girl's reaction. Did she already know? Did she know what the next item of news would be? Her expression gave away nothing but curiosity. June Merivale considered herself to be a very good judge of character.

"Is… is he okay?" Caitlin finally ventured.

"No." Merivale shook her head. "He died, Caitlin. We had a call from the hospital just before six this morning. London hospitals don't have endless supplies of anti-venom for foreign snakes. By the time they'd located some and brought it in from another hospital, it was too late."

Caitlin's jaw dropped. "Oh, my God," she whispered. And there was something else Merivale noticed: a certain look of _that-was-not-supposed-to-happen._

"Now the snake," she went on, "was stolen from a reptile collector named Prosser. And guess what we found? Just as a coincidence, his son Aidan goes to school with you."

Caitlin tilted her chin a little. "No," she said haughtily. "Aidan Prosser goes to school with _Matthew._ In between me and Ed. Along with, like, a hundred other people. I don't think I've even, like, said anything to him. I've heard his name in the bulletin and sometimes at assemblies. I think he might be on the football team or the cricket team, or some other stupid thing I don't care about. I don't know him."

Merivale shuffled the case files in front of her. "Never been to his house?"

"No."

"Did you know his dad had half-a-dozen poisonous snakes at his house?"

"Venomous," Sherlock suddenly interrupted.

Merivale blinked and turned to him. "… Sorry?"

"It's poisonous if you eat it. It's venomous if it bites you."

Merivale considered this for a few seconds before deciding on, "Kindly shut up, Sherlock."

The _kindly_ was a concession to current circumstances, as well as keeping-the-status-quo. Sherlock struck her as the last man on earth who'd react well to being emotionally mollycoddled, even if he'd just lost someone who, for want of a better expression, could be called a close friend. But Sherlock barely reacted to the verbal finger-slapping. He was very quiet; barely there at all, mentally, or so it seemed to her. Shock? She considered this and then rejected it. Sherlock wasn't in shock. He'd withdrawn deeply into himself to think, not grieve. John Watson, on the other hand, seemed to Merivale to be the most unflappable person on earth. He was all business, except in odd moments where he'd solicit Sherlock with a glance or twist at his wedding ring.

"Caitlin?" she urged.

Caitlin groaned. "No, I didn't know his dad had all these stupid snakes at his house, because _I don't know him."_

"You're sure? We can check," John said.

"Check, then," she huffed. Then, under her breath, "idiot."

"Caitlin," Merivale said, before this could degenerate any further, even though John Watson's reaction to being called an idiot seemed to be part exasperation and part wry amusement. "Show me your arms."

"My what?" Caitlin echoed. She drew back in her chair slightly, lacing her fingers in and out of one another. At a glance, those fingers seemed undamaged.

Pull up your sleeves," Merivale said. Then, as an afterthought, "please."

"Is it even, like, _legal_ for you to ask me to do this?" Caitlin rolled her eyes, fingers twitching at the cuff-buttons on her long-sleeved blouse. All three investigators had noted it: an oddly Puritan thing for a teenage girl to be wearing in August. But Caitlin drew back both sleeves without hesitation and lay her arms across the table for Merivale's perusal.

No scratches. No bruises. No lacerations.

Caitlin said, "Happy now?"

"I'd be a lot happier if you'd give me less mouth. The reason we brought you in today is to ask you about an incident the day before yesterday. Hayley Lestrade was out the front of the British Museum when she took a call that came from a phone box."

Caitlin shrugged. "Did she? That's nice."

"A _nearby_ phone box. So close, actually, that you could be clearly seen in the CCTV footage making that call to her…"

Sherlock scoffed.

"Sherlock identified you," Merivale tacked on, determined to give credit where it was due. "And Hayley said you sat on the line for a few seconds and then hung up. Her father's now _dead_ , Caitlin. You've got a lot of explaining to do. Why were you stalking and prank-calling Hayley Lestrade? Do you realise how suspicious this looks?"

Caitlin's bottom lip trembled slightly. "I…" She splayed her palms out on the table, rubbing the balls of her hands into it for a second, then glanced at her stepfather. "I wasn't pranking her," she said at last.

"Okay, so you were just stalking her, then," John remarked.

"I wasn't doing that either!" Caitlin exclaimed. "I… I was in the area. It was a coincidence. I swear. I didn't know she was there until I saw her. I needed to tell her something, and I… I didn't know if I had the guts to do it face-to-face." She shrugged. "Turns out I didn't have the guts to do it over the phone, either. I wanted to. But I couldn't do it, so I hung up."

"Finally, we have something worth listening to," Sherlock said. "You needed to tell her something. What?"

Caitlin cast her eyes down. "I… look, I was just stirring shit, all right? I was going to tell her I was meeting someone."

"Oh, Caitlin," Merivale groaned, tilting her head back. She'd taken on the tones of an exasperated mother. "It's been a very long morning already, so please get to the point. Does this _someone_ have a name?"

Caitlin looked at her stepfather again, but the older man's expression gave nothing away.

"Dyer," she said at last. "Detective Jake Dyer."


	16. Time and the Hour

Greg Lestrade had never really had any time for sitting around doing nothing, except when forced to it by sheer exhaustion. This necessary idleness, enclosed in his living room with the curtains drawn, was driving him crazy. Nobody else was home, except for the cat. Molly had taken Charlie home, and Hayley and Melissa had rushed off to give the news of his death to the rest of his family, now congregated over at Julie and Mark's house.

After he'd flicked channels three times and perused every inch of last Sunday's paper twice, he heard the latch of the front door. Melissa stepped through the kitchen and down into the living room. Glancing up at her out of the corner of his eye, it took him a few seconds to register that she was crying.

"Hey," he said, sitting up. The last time he'd seen Melissa do anything that even resembled crying had been at Mrs. Hudson's funeral. "Hey. I didn't really die, right? I'm right here." He reached out and gently pulled her down onto the sofa beside him, putting one arm around her shoulders.

"Sorry," she said into her hand, then took a deep breath. "That was… ugh, I never want to do that again. I don't think it could've gone any worse even if you really had died. I left Hayley there - I think her Nan needs her. If it makes you feel any better, your mum actually does love you."

His face fell. "She wants to see me, doesn't she."

Melissa nodded.

"She's from Cornwall. They do things like that down that way. Not my cup of tea, but I should have known she'd probably ask. What did you tell her?"

By this time Melissa had wandered out to the kitchen and was filling the kettle from the sink. She twisted the tap off before she said, "As little as possible. I had no idea _what_ to tell her, she put me on the spot with it. I think I said it really wasn't my call to make, and I'd have to ask Merivale."

"Good. _She_ can say no to Mum then."

"But she's… okay, Greg," Mel continued, appearing in the archway that linked the living area with the kitchen. "Your mum. I mean, she's…"

"… Not likely to… uh."

"Yeah, that."

The electric kettle had just started to boil, and Melissa retreated back to the kitchen to tend it. He listened to her shuffling about, clinking ceramic coffee cups against the countertop and sniffing a couple of times. When she brought coffee for both of them back into the living room, he managed, "And how, um, how's Julie…?"

"Not great." Melissa showed her disapproval of the topic of Julie by plunking his coffee onto the table, instead of putting it into his hands.

He frowned, wondering how he was supposed to clarify what _not great_ was meant to mean without flicking on Mel's raw nerves any further. "But she's mostly just upset about Matty, right?"

"No idea, Greg." Melissa sat down beside him again, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and took a long sip of coffee. "I didn't actually talk to her - she was in her room. Mark said they've had a doctor around, and she's been sedated."

"Sedated? Bloody fantastic. Now we're medicating people for no reason. I hope Sherlock knows what he's doing."

"Does he ever not?"

"He's made mistakes. I don't know if that's the same thing." Despite being told not to, he got up and twitched the curtains aside a little to look out. Nothing doing over at the Braach house, though their car was parked outside. "I don't even know what I want. Whether I hope Matthew doesn't see the news, or… whether I hope he does. And freaks out enough to come home." Then, in a much quieter voice, he said, "And then we can take him to… whoever it is you take a teenager to help if you think he's autistic."

He waited for it: some variation on _I told you so._ Melissa was firmly convinced that Matthew had some form of spectrum disorder, even though he'd never been diagnosed with one. Over his shoulder, Greg heard her lift her coffee to take another sip, but she made no reply.

After an uncomfortable silence, and since there was still nothing of any note happening in the street, Greg turned around for the TV guide again, as if the contents could have changed in the ten minutes since he'd last read it. His gaze fell on the stapled stack of printed pages that John had left on the coffee table the night before. Matthew's novel, _Death Watch._

Idly, he reached over and picked it up, flipping over to the second page, the dedication. _To Mum, Dad, Mel, Sherlock, John and Molly, for all their help and support._

Well… that was nice. He felt guiltily that he could really have been more help to Matthew with all the technical details of the case, and he had no idea how much help Julie had been to him either, but it was nice to be appreciated.

"Have you ever actually read that?" Melissa asked him, in much more conversational tones.

"Bits and pieces," he said vaguely, flipping through the bulk of it without pausing to read. "I haven't really had the time to sit around reading novels, Mel."

"Well, you've got the time now, so maybe you should," she said. "Give him some praise for it when he comes back. He laps that up from you, you know. And anyway, I hear it's got one hell of a plot."

"But _you_ haven't read it?"

She shook her head. "I asked," she said. "Ages ago, when he signed with the publisher. He muttered something about how I could read it after it was ready. If he wanted to show you, take that as your badge of honour."

"I suppose." Greg squinted at the typeface. Mel was right, again - time to concede that he may actually need glasses to read these days.

* * *

According to his employee file, Detective Constable Jacob William Dyer lived in a little basement flat just off Barker Street. Merivale, Sherlock and John arrived there shortly before eleven. After dropping her bomb, Caitlin Trent had closed up and refused to say much else. Merivale had had to concede both that it was her legal right to keep quiet, and that it was probably quicker and easier to go straight to the source.

There was no answer to her heavy knock, but after a few seconds, they all heard light footfalls in the hall and the curtains twitched. Merivale banged on the door again. "Dyer," she said. "Open up."

There was a pause before they heard the bolt sliding open and Dyer opened the door a few inches. Seeing who it was, he rolled his eyes. "Go away," he said.

"No." Merivale put out her hand to stop him from closing the door. "We're going to talk right now. You can either let us in, or I can take you in for questioning down at the station in front of all your colleagues. And you've got ten seconds to decide, so hurry it up."

No answer.

"You might as well," John said through the door, folding his arms and leaning back against the brickwork beside the kitchen window. "It's not like we're going to just go away if you ignore us, mate."

After another few seconds of deliberation, they heard the security chain being unbolted and the door opened.

Jacob Dyer was playing Lestrade's bereaved colleague to perfection - either that or the stress of the case was getting to him at last. He was unshaven and dishevelled, wearing a baggy pair of jeans and a blue t-shirt with _Keep Up or Fuck Off_ emblazoned on it in bold white lettering. The flat behind him was in chaos. For a second, John wondered if Dyer had actually been drinking, but there was no tell-tale smell of alcohol on his breath or anywhere else in the flat as they trooped in.

"Okay. Sit down anywhere, I guess." Jake gestured vaguely to the sofa, which was heaped with a spilled basket of laundry in desperate need of ironing.

Merivale moved them aside to sit down, but Sherlock remained standing, and after a second, John's gaze met the kitchen doorway. "I'll make coffee," he muttered, heading for the fridge.

"I don't know if there's milk," Jake called after him.

"Then we'll do without."

Several minutes of near-silence followed. Sherlock, lost in thought, was wandering around the room looking at various things - the stereo, the television, the bookshelf. He turned over one of the sofa cushions, looked at it carefully, and flipped it back. As if understanding that John's coffee interlude was a chance for her to calm down and collect her thoughts before launching in, Merivale watched Sherlock in silence until John had returned with the coffee cups and handed them around.

"I'm just going to get down to it," she said, ignoring the fact that Sherlock was clearly mentally elsewhere. If he wasn't going to pay attention during an important interview, that was his own problem. "We found out who made that phone call to Hayley yesterday. Caitlin Trent. She said she was going to tell her all about how she'd just met up with _you_ , actually."

"Oh." But Dyer didn't look particularly perturbed. He scratched the cowlick on the back of his head. "Yeah, we did meet up. She was going to tell Hayley _what_ , though? That I met a friend of one of the victims for a coffee?"

"Oh, don't play dumb." Merivale pointed one finger accusingly at him. "Social meeting, was it? Last I checked, you weren't even _on_ this investigation, and had been told to stay right out of it. So what the hell were you thinking, getting all cosy with Caitlin?"

Dyer looked at her. "I met her at the Pret-a-Manger in New Oxford Street. Bought her a coffee. I was trying to get her to come out of her shell. Nothing happened. All she did was blubber to me about what a great friend Celeste Biondi was."

"Really?" Sherlock broke in, suddenly giving his full attention. "She said that?"

"That was the gist of it, yeah, and not much else. If I'd got anything useful from her, I'd have said so ages ago."

"And she literally cried?"

"Like a bloody fountain. I there-there'd her a bit and when she'd calmed down, she left first and then I went home. What's wrong with that?"

"Jesus Christ, Dyer," Merivale said. "Were you born yesterday? As if anyone's going to take your word over hers if she decides to tell you had other things in mind than trying to get her out of her shell. You and Hayley-"

"All right, you can stop _right there_ ," he said with some heat. "If I have to take a bollocking from you, I'm not taking one about Hayley. Yes, there's seven bloody years' age difference between me and Hayley. Yes, she was legal when I met her. No, I'm not a pervert. And I'm not a cheater, either -"

"Dyer," Sherlock said, cutting him off. "Who is this?" He picked up a framed photograph from beside the television, showing a couple in their thirties, standing out the front of a Victorian semi. The man was obviously in a job involving manual labour or mechanics - even from the photograph Sherlock could tell his nails were rarely clean. The woman was holding a white-swathed newborn, tilted up toward the camera proudly. Slightly to one side was a boy who was obviously Jacob Dyer, on the cusp of a very unforgiving puberty.

Dyer glanced at it. "Family," he said, shrugging. "Mum, Dad, me. The baby's my brother Josh. Why?"

Sherlock examined the photograph carefully before answering, "Because when we went to the Trent house the other day, I noticed there were no photographs of the mother anywhere in the living room." He put the frame down. "There were plenty of the children. There was one on the mantelpiece of Robert Trent holding a toddler - not Edward, so they have another younger child together, then. But there are no photographs of the mother. Isn't that odd? If she'd left the family, or even if she'd died, perhaps…"

"Not necessarily," John said. "There are no pictures of me downstairs at my place, either. When you have kids, you take down the wedding photos and start putting the baby pictures up."

"Wait, hang on," Merivale said, holding one hand up like a referee. "When you went _where_ the other day?" As if recognising that she wasn't going to get a straight answer out of Sherlock, she looked at John. "Just how deep does this little sideline investigation go?" she demanded.

John cleared his throat, then sipped at his coffee. "Not far," he finally said vaguely. "I think a couple of detectives who usually work - worked - with Greg might have started interviewing some of Celeste's friends before you were brought into the case. And, um. Philip Anderson-"

"Oh, for God's sake," Merivale moaned, covering her face in her hands. "Why the hell didn't anyone tell me? You know-"

"Dyer," Sherlock said, his tone defying Merivale to interrupt him. "Have you ever seen Caitlin and Edward Trent's mother?"

"I was waiting outside for her when she got there. A woman in a blue sedan dropped her off on the corner, so I figured it was her mother." He shrugged. "But I didn't really see her. Wasn't looking properly. Brown hair. Early, mid-forties, maybe. Why?"

"She brought her stepfather," Sherlock mused, cupping his hands over his nose and mouth and pacing over to the window, glancing out at nothing in particular. "Both times. Robert Trent sat in on the interview with Jones, Donovan and myself. Then Caitlin brought her stepfather again when she came in to be interviewed this morning. Why would she do that? It was obvious from the moment we walked into their house that she _hates_ him."

"Maybe the mother was busy - yeah, fine," John conceded. "You'd have to be awfully 'busy' to not come with your kid when the police question her."

"His name is Trent," Sherlock went on. _"His_ name, not Caitlin and Edward's birth surname… but their stepfather married their mother only seven years ago. Caitlin used one name for ten years, and she hates the man whose name she took."

"What's that all mean, Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock took his hands away from his mouth and scruffed at his hair restlessly, turning back to John. "It means," he said, "she's trying to hide her mother from us. For some reason. Do we even know what her name is?"

They looked at Merivale, who shook her head. "It's probably in the case files somewhere," she said. "But then, if we've never met the woman and the Trent kids aren't serious suspects, why would it be?"

"But there are notes, surely?" John asked. "I mean, from that first interview you had with the kids…"

"Jones had most of them," Sherlock said. "And who knows where those are now. But Donovan was also taking notes. We need her in on this. We need her professional opinion - and to find out if she knows more about Mrs. Trent."

* * *

Everyone has a secret hobby. One they're not quite ashamed of, but don't readily advertise. And for Sally Donovan, that hobby was baking.

Ordinary cooking bored her to tears - before moving in with Rahul, she'd been addicted to takeaway Chinese meals and cheese-on-toast combinations that seemed just fine to fuel her from one day at work to the next. But two years ago, Lauren Jones had caught the baking bug and started bringing in cupcakes and tea-cakes and biscuits to work nearly every day. George Castelli had hee-hawed like an idiot and made some obnoxious remark to the effect that the team couldn't expect to ever get home-made treats from _Donovan_ , in tones that suggested she'd be likely to burn water.

Sally had never backed down from a challenge, and that time was no different. Days, weeks, months went by where she wrangled with flour and baking powder and eggs almost every day off she got. It had first been simply out of spite, because fuck Castelli and his smarmy, sexist bullshit. But by the time she was confident enough to start bringing her creations in to work with her (and long after Jones had got over the novelty and stopped), she had to admit it - she found baking incredibly therapeutic.

And she was in need of therapy now, though sneaking spoonfuls of carrot-cake batter in between pouring it into a rectangular cake tray was helping just as much as her creative efforts. Because she strongly suspected it was either bake enough cake to supply a church fete, or curl up into a ball on the sofa and sob.

Sally hated getting her eyelashes wet.

Bob Thompson had been a nice enough guy, though everyone knew he had a marriage breakdown and a drinking problem - she knew for a fact that Lestrade had sent him home twice to get his act together when he'd come to work either hung over or still drunk. He'd always seemed friendly and upbeat to her, and he had a great rapport with kids, so much so that he'd been the Liaison officer more often than she herself had. Sad that he'd died, and rather horrible _how_ he'd died. But colleagues had died before, and for Sally, the world would still spin without Bob Thompson.

Jones - Jones had been a friend, of sorts, even though the two hadn't had much more than their gender in common. Jones had been a domesticated animal, the sort of woman who made her bread from scratch and ironed her underwear. She'd been hoping her fella would hurry up and propose so they could try for a baby before her thirties ran out. Donovan suspected that she hadn't even really enjoyed baking, as such - she'd enjoyed the feedback. The praise. The validation.

Jones's death meant something. She'd had a place in Sally's life, and now all that was left where she used to be was a hole, a gaping wound.

And now Greg was dead, too.

Fuck it, she had _liked_ him _._

More than anything, she'd liked him because he'd always listened to her and considered her. Always. He was one of the most fair-minded detectives she'd ever worked with, valuing an opinion even if he didn't always agree with it. There were times, she had to admit, that she hadn't given his position the respect she probably should have, while he'd been one of the few superiors she'd had who'd respected hers. Who'd never given the impression he thought she was there because of some sort of Affirmative Action policy.

The doorbell rang, clear and abrupt in the quiet flat. She dropped the cake tray in alarm and it clattered to rest on the countertop, cake batter listing up one side a little before sliding down and coming to rest. She reached out for a tea towel to wipe her hands. "Coming," she called.

Probably Merivale, or someone she'd sent. In retrospect, telling a Detective Inspector to fuck off probably wasn't one of her greatest career moves. She was going to have to answer for it eventually, and there was no time like the present. Rahul was on afternoon shift and wasn't expected back until eleven o'clock. There was another long, petulant ring of the doorbell as she crossed the hall toward the door.

"All right, Jesus," she muttered. Reaching the door, she took a peep through the stained glass panel and then opened the door a crack, chain still attached.

"You're back." She gave a beleaguered sigh. "Don't mean to be rude or anything, but this is really not the right time for it."

"Please. It's urgent. I've got to talk to you."

Another sigh.

And then Sally detached the security chain and opened the door.


	17. At One Fell Swoop

For almost half a breathless minute, all of them sat listening to the purr of the ringing line. Finally John pulled his phone away from his ear. "Not answering," he said unnecessarily.

"Well, that doesn't mean…" Merivale trailed off. "I mean, she's upset about Lestrade. She's blocked half of Scotland Yard."

"No," Sherlock said. "She's probably blocked you and it's possible that she's blocked me. But why would she have blocked John? Besides, it's ringing out. She hasn't blocked the incoming number, and the phone's neither switched off nor damaged."

"Maybe it's on silent?" John suggested.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John," he said longsufferingly. "Sally Donovan is a murder detective in the middle of a major investigation, her commanding officer and two close colleagues have just been murdered, and she's been married for only two months. Her phone _isn't on silent."_

"There's something else," Dyer said, though he sounded subdued. He got up and started rummaging around by the phone, eventually coming up with a small spiral-bound notepad. He flicked through a couple of pages, consulting them. "I've been thinking about this one all morning, actually," he said. "You said that Celeste wasn't pushed, and Bob Thompson let his killer into the house. What about Jones?"

"No sign of a forced entry," Merivale said, folding her arms.

"See, that sounds wrong to me," Dyer said. " _Really_ wrong. Thompson was killed first and he didn't know anyone was out for him, so yeah, maybe he just opened the door to anyone. _I_ wouldn't, but there you go. Celeste might've been drunk or drugged or both, but what girl in her right mind would accept booze like that from a stranger?"

John stopped himself before he could snark that there had been a time when his sister would probably have accepted booze from the Mad Poisoner of Maida Hill.

"Everyone knows about roofies," Dyer went on. He flicked through the pages on his notepad, though he didn't seem to be referring to it anymore. "When Hayley goes out with her friends, she says they all take it in turns to watch each others' drinks when they go to the loo." He cleared his throat. "And then, when people are being killed and going missing left, right and centre - Jones goes and lets her killer into the house. At night. When there was nobody else home. I didn't know her very well, but she wasn't an idiot. Whoever it was who killed her, it was someone she knew and trusted. And if she trusted someone enough to let them into the house-"

"Donovan might too," John finished, getting to his feet and going for the car keys in his jeans pocket. "We need to go out there. Sherlock, you should go with Merivale. You'll probably get there faster."

* * *

When they arrived at Donovan's residence fifteen minutes later, there seemed to be nothing amiss, just going on appearances. There was a white sedan in the driveway, and the curtains were drawn back, revealing a vague outline of a purple-fabric sofa and piano in the front room. Merivale seemed not to notice this as she charged up the front path and thumped hard on the door with her fist.

In seconds, they all heard a loud, blunt _thud_ that shook the pavement stones beneath them, and then a muffled, breathless female cry.

"Shit," Merivale said, shaking the door handle fruitlessly. She reached for her belt, and a truncheon that wasn't there; when her fingers grasped nothing, she turned to Sherlock. "Get us in there!"

"John," Sherlock said. "Kitchen window."

But John had already got the idea and was pulling the window sash up. It creaked and resisted, then abruptly shot up as if it had suddenly become unstuck. Before anyone could debate which of them was likely to be able to get in faster, Sherlock was clambering for a leg-up on the sill. He was up in seconds, and let himself through the window backwards, like a deep-sea diver off a charter boat. There was another thud as he launched himself from the sink to the kitchen floor, then a scrabble of feet and the most welcome sound possible - Sally Donovan sputtering crossly, "Go after him, Sherlock!"

"Open the door for us, first," John said under his breath. But judging from the sound of flying footsteps and another clatter of what was probably the back door being thrown open, Sherlock had forgotten he'd even left people on the front step waiting for him. Merivale, now in the process of dispatching officers to the scene, banged on the door again.

"No point," John said, sizing up the window and searching for a grip on the sill. "He's long gone. Help me up."

The kitchen was in deep shadow, but there was still light enough for John to see, as he climbed over the sink and cupboards, the extent of the scene in front of him. Sally Donovan was on her knees in the middle of the floor. Or at least, John assumed it was Sally Donovan. Her face was so spattered with blood that it was hard to recognise her features, and her once-yellow shirt was now crimson. She forced herself to her feet, then slumped down again, just as John grabbed her under the arms.

"Hold on, Sally, just stop. You're injured," he muttered automatically, looking around for somewhere to sit her down - she wouldn't make the journey to the living room sofa. Finally, he urged her back down onto the floor near the dishwasher. The awkward descent jolted her and she gave a little cry of pain.

"Just a second," John said. "Stay there." He hurried through to the front door, pulling it open to admit Merivale. As he led her back into the kitchen, he glanced down the hall toward the back door. Whoever had run down it, with Sherlock in pursuit, they'd left bloodstains on the carpet. The door was hanging open on its hinges, and there were large smears of blood on the handle and panels.

"Edward Trent," Sally gasped out to him, one hand clasping her side. John could hear Merivale making a call to someone - presumably an ambulance - behind his left shoulder as he eased Sally's hand away from the wound.

"Sorry," he muttered, drawing her blood-soaked shirt up slightly to better see the two-inch knife-wound just below the underwire of her bra. "All right, listen, you're not bleeding too badly, but try to stay still until the ambulance comes, all right?" Glancing down at her, he saw that the front buttons of her jeans had been pulled so violently they'd been broken. But the primary injuries seemed to be slashes to her forearms and face. Her breath had a rattle to it. She was choking up on her own blood.

"That bastard," John heard her seething as he turned back to the sink for a cloth to clear the blood clotting around her mouth and nose. "That fucking bastard…"

* * *

An hour later, while Merivale and her team were still searching the Trent's registered address and John was waiting in the lounge of the local hospital, Sherlock joined him. He was soaking wet, disheveled and frustrated.

"Taking it you didn't catch him," John said. Sherlock shook his head.

"He made it to the football grounds four streets west of Donovan's house, but then it started to pour and I lost his tracks," he said, brushing sopping curls out of his eyes. "I called Merivale. None of the Trent family are at the house, and the neighbours said they left the house at seven this morning and none of them have been seen since. I don't expect Edward will get far, though. He's injured - all that blood can't be Donovan's." He paused. "How, er, is she?"

"Looks like she'll be okay. Won't be happy about her face being all cut up, but you probably won't even see it in a couple of months. And plastic surgery can do wonders these days. At least she survived."

"That may have been his intention."

John looked questioningly at him.

"He left no note," Sherlock went on, pulling his sodden scarf off restlessly and then retying it. "Though he might have meant to. It's possible that this was a reference to the character of Lavinia in Shakespeare's _Titus Andronicus._ She was raped, but not murdered. Then her tongue was cut out and her hands cut off to prevent her telling anyone."

"Jesus Christ," John muttered. "Yeah, that... fits, actually. He really went for her face and wrists. Her jeans button was broken but they weren't pulled down, so I don't think he got far in raping her. Why's he still bothering with the Shakespeare, though?"

"For fun. The Shakespeare has never been anything other than a cover for sadistic, creative violence," Sherlock said. "Luckily for Sally Donovan, Edward Trent got a little too creative this time."

"Do you think Caitlin's involved as well?"

"Almost certainly."

"Oh, God. Anderson," John blurted out. "Anderson said he found something weird at Thompson's murder - a puddle of vomit on the floor that didn't come from the victim. We were thinking it came from the murderer, but what if it came from Caitlin, Sherlock? What if he's got her as some sort of hostage?"

"She was the one who was stalking Hayley Lestrade," Sherlock pointed out. "And she was the one who lied her way through interviews and tried to hide her mother from the police. She's not a hostage. This is a killing partnership, where two personalities spark into violence like fire and gunpowder. It's called a folie à deux." He paused. "Though I'll grant you that Edward, no matter how angelic he looks, is probably the dominant partner."

"But… why? I mean why would anybody do this? Just because they're both barking mad? And what's the mother got to do with anything? Is _she_ involved?"

Sherlock muttered, "I don't know yet. But let's look at what we _have_ achieved. But we've prevented a death and forced the Trents away from their home base. That's something."

"Yeah." John glanced at his watch for the third time in as many minutes. "Sorry," he said, and he really sounded it. "If there's nothing more I can do for Donovan and the police are already out looking for the Trent kids, I need to head home, at least for a couple of hours. I don't want to leave Molly on her own too long in all this, especially without the car. Ring me if you need me, okay? I-"

"Yes, fine," Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively at him. "You go. I need to interview Donovan."

* * *

It had naturally never crossed Sherlock Holmes's mind that Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan might not be in any mood or condition to be interviewed, nor that it was a breach of security for him to wander into her hospital room once he'd worked out by process of elimination which one it was. The only other people in the room were a dumpy, middle-aged woman wearing a nightgown in double leg traction in the bed opposite, and Sally's husband. Rahul Mukherjee was some sort of engineer, judging from his thumbs, and the cigarette smell on his clothes betrayed that their recent honeymoon had taken place at least partly in Gibraltar.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, stepping forward defensively.

"'S'ok," Sally mumbled, "Sherlock Holmes. He's okay. Mostly."

Sherlock had stopped in the middle of the room and was looking carefully at her, as if trying to evaluate how likely she'd be to be able to be interviewed. As John had pointed out, her face had been a focus in the attack. There were thick padded dressings on both cheeks and she had a matching pair of swollen black eyes. Her voice was thick with the swelling of her injuries. Capable of basic communication, but Sherlock's glance strayed to the morphine pump inches away from her left hand. She might not be making sense for much longer.

"Go away for ten minutes," he said to Rahul. "I need to interview Sally in private."

"What-"

"He's always like this," Sally said. "He's okay."

After a few seconds of hesitation, Rahul left. Sherlock, with a deprecating glance at the near-comatose woman in the bed opposite, drew the curtains around Sally's and dropped into a nearby plastic chair. "When I find you on your kitchen floor after being stabbed by a teenage boy, it's a sign we need to talk," he said.

"Aww. You saved me," she said, trying to give a somewhat sarcastic smile. "My very own knight in tweed armour."

"I see you've been given a strong dose of painkillers," Sherlock huffed. "Don't be absurd, I was only on the scene for a minute. I didn't save you. I don't even like you." He paused. "Obviously, I'm not anxious that you be murdered."

"Thanks." She leaned back into her pillows. "Thanks so much. Gives me the warm fuzzies, that does."

" _Don't fall asleep,_ " Sherlock said. "I need you to tell me why Edward Trent attacked you."

"'Cause he's a psychopath."

"No." Sherlock shook his head. "This is important, Sally, so for God's sake, _concentrate_. Even psychopaths do things for reasons that make sense to themselves. Did he just walk in and attack you with a knife without saying anything? Or what?"

"Double-edged dagger," she mumbled. "Old. Like something out of Game of Thrones. Think he had it under his hoodie. An' no, he didn't tell me why he was attacking me. Said he had info about Celeste's murder. Grabbed me by the waist while I w's making tea. Stuck a knife…"

She winced. Sherlock didn't need for her to elaborate that he'd stabbed her at least twice just under her right-hand ribs before trying to rip her jeans down with one hand and subdue her with the other. An utterly stupid attack technique, and doomed to failure. "And you did the only logical thing, of course," he said.

"'Course. Smashed a plate over his head an' went for his eyes with it." She exhaled and shut her eyes, and her fingers strayed slightly toward the morphine pump. "Might've grabbed his balls, too…"

"Stay awake. Did he tell you anything about Celeste?"

"No."

"Was Caitlin with him? Or anyone else?"

"No." She opened her eyes again and looked across at him, or tried to. But her gaze was drug-fogged by this time. "Sherlock, 'm as high as shit on meds right now," she said. "Make it quick. Going to be off in la-la land in a minute."

Sherlock rose, buttoning his still-damp coat. "Thank you, Sally," he said stiffly. "I've no more questions."

* * *

_How could he know?_

The adventures of world-famous detective Benedict Cumberbatch and friends was making for disturbing reading. Greg had long since started skim-reading the contents: a fairly standard mystery concerning a poisoner who seemingly picked victims at random and made their deaths seem like suicides. _I never told him about this. I'm sure I never…_

But there was something missing from the scene where the heroic detective faces his foe in a game of wits over two bottles of poisoned pills.

_He had kids. That's why he did it. He was dying anyway, brain haemorrhage or something, and he wanted money for his kids._

Matthew's narrative made no mention of the idea that _his_ serial killer, whom he hadn't named, had a single relative in the world. His physical description seemed almost purposefully vague as well - no indication that Matthew knew what the real guy looked or spoke like. But by the time Greg reached the climactic scene where detective and serial killer face off in an empty university lecture hall over two bottles of possibly-poisoned pills, he could almost feel his blood surging through his body and the sweat break out on his temples.

"Mel," he said over his shoulder. "Phone. Now, please. The mobile." Even after all these years, he had no idea what Sherlock's phone number was off the top of his head - if he had to admit it to himself, he didn't know Melissa's either, and could barely remember his own. Still engrossed in the contents of the chapter, he reached out his hand into empty space until he vaguely registered a sigh from Melissa and the weight of his phone in his palm. He wasn't in the mood to concern himself with Melissa's muttering that she was not, in fact, one of his constables to give orders to, and her reminder that dead men don't make phone calls. Sherlock picked up in seconds.

"Relax," he said immediately. "She'll be fine."

"Donovan?" Greg guessed.

"Edward Trent attacked her, but I… wasn't able to apprehend him. The police are out at the Trent house, but Merivale's reported that the whole family have disappeared."

"Yeah, well, you can tell the guys looking for them that they might be wasting their time, 'cause if they're who I think they are, they're not even using their real names. They've been in a Witness Protection program since 2010. Sherlock, six years ago their name wasn't Trent. It was _Hope._ Karen Hope went into the WPP because she was the forewoman on the jury at Moriarty's trial, and he secured that bollocks acquittal by threatening to kill her kids. I couldn't tell you the kids' names, but they're not Caitlin and Edward, anyway."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"'Cause I had no idea who the hell they were just from their assumed _names,_ Sherlock, that's the point of Witness Protection. Not even the regular police are meant to know who they are. The only reason I put those two things together are 'cause they're also the family of Jeff Hope. The Suicide Pill Murderer."

Sherlock's breath caught for a second.

"Matthew's got the whole case mapped out in this book, Sherlock," Greg went on. "In a hell of a lot of detail - more than you'd get from reading the papers. Stuff the press didn't even know. And he didn't find it out from me."

"Wait," Sherlock said. "If Hope's family went into Witness Protection, what are they doing in London?"

"No idea, and I haven't got the info on hand to be able to tell you. I'm thinking they might have moved back after Moriarty was declared legally dead in 2013. It's going to take me ages to get any information from that division, especially since _I'm_ supposed to be dead…"

Sherlock was silent for so long that Lestrade wondered if he'd put the phone down and walked away. " _Sherlock,"_ he barked. "Wake up."

"I'm _thinking_ ," Sherlock finally said, though he sounded vague. After a few more seconds he asked, "Have you read the end yet? The denouement of the crime?"

"No."

"Flip forward and answer me this: _Who killed the cabbie?"_

Anchoring the stapled pages with the back of his wrist, Greg flicked forward to the final pages, skimming it through. When he reached the relevant passage, he suddenly felt like he'd taken a punch to the chest. "James Harden," he heard himself say. "Obviously a stand-in for John. Shot him through a window… Sherlock, Matty _didn't know…"_

"You kept telling us that you never discussed your cases with Matthew, and you were telling the truth." Sherlock said. "He _didn't_ get those details from you. He extrapolated them from John's blog… oh, God."

Sherlock hung up.

* * *

John answered his phone almost the second it began to ring, clearly indicating it had already been in his hand at the time. "Sherlock," he said, sounding agitated. "I was literally calling you just now-"

"Where are you?"

"Ten minutes from home - just picking up some milk." After another second, Sherlock registered, much later than usual, two other voices in the background of the call - a male service station cashier from North London and a female customer of Eastern European extraction, judging by their accents. "Sherlock," John was saying, "I got a text from an unknown number just a second ago. Either the media have leaked the Shakespeare thing, or Edward Trent's texting _me_ now. Just says 'Your castle is surprised.'"

Sherlock shut his eyes and let out a breath.

"It's from him, isn't it." It was not a question. "What's it mean?"

"Listen to me carefully," Sherlock said, trying for clarity over emotion. "Lestrade just called me. The Trent children are the children of Jeff Hope, the Suicide Pill Murderer."

"… A Study in Pink?"

"Yes, and that's exactly where they got the information that you killed their father. Your _bloody blog_. Go home, now. Quickly. The police are on their way there. The quote Edward Trent sent you is from _Macbeth_. While he's out hunting him down, Macbeth has Macduff's wife and children murdered."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Hope's wife was the forewoman at Moriarty's trial isn't artistic license! :) In The Reichenbach Fall, she turns on the hotel TV to see a photo of her three kids. The elder two, a girl and a boy, are the same kids in the cabbie's photograph in A Study in Pink. I think they're the real-life kids of one of the production crew members.
> 
> Also, thanks a million if you're still reading this :)


	18. When Shall We Three Meet Again

“Molly…”

Molly half-opened her eyes, then sank back down into near-oblivion again. _So tired_ _…_

“Molly! Get up!”

Her eyes flew open. She found herself curled up awkwardly on the living-room sofa. The TV was on, and John was standing over her, still shaking her by one shoulder.

“Get up,” he barked. “Jesus, don’t you ever answer the phone?”

Her phone… was her phone even downstairs? Or had she left it in the bedroom…? She hadn’t the faintest clue what the time even was. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the sofa. She’d put Charlie down for _her_ nap, and then sat down to watch the episode of _Hannibal_ that she’d taped while they’d been at Greg’s the evening before… only closed her eyes for a minute…

“Come _on_ , Molly! We’re leaving. _Now!_ _”_

Her heart gave a painful thump. Married life wasn’t always a romp through a field of daisies, but she didn’t think John had ever used that tone of voice with her before. Before she was properly on her feet, he’d already rushed out of the room. She went to the kitchen and scooped up her handbag from where it sat on the counter, listening to John’s heavy footfalls on the stairs and then in the nursery above her head. Then back to their own bedroom, and she heard the shuffle of the bedside drawer being pulled open. He was fetching the gun.

She’d just reached the front door, and was fumbling with her shoes, when he reappeared at the foot of the stairs with Charlie, sleep-flushed, in his arms. Her backpack of various paraphernalia was hanging off his wrist.

“John,” she said. “For God’s sake, tell me what’s wrong!”

“I’ll tell you in the car. Please, move.”

“But… do I have time to pack anything?”

“No. I’ll come back and get stuff later. Let’s go.”

 

The sun was now low in the sky, and the shadows were long. Looking around, the street seemed to be deserted, except for a grey-haired woman watering her garden in a house up near the corner. But they had just made it to the car, and John was fumbling in his pocket for the key, when Molly saw a movement in the shadow of the hedge next door. Two figures stepped out from behind it.

John’s breath caught. She felt, rather than saw, his shoulders drop.

Both were strangers to Molly. A blonde girl, twenty at most. A boy with blood clumping his dark hair and splattered all over his t-shirt and the knees of his jeans. He held up something like a huge, black insect, all spindly legs and wings. In another instant, she saw that it was a small handheld crossbow, loaded with a bolt the thickness of a man’s thumb.

“Molly,” John said without looking at her. _“Don’t_.”

White-hot anger flooded over her.

This was the moment they’d all both been anticipating for a year. The reason John had trained her for months on how to handle his gun - so she could use it if some psychopath aimed a crossbow at him and Charlie. And now he was telling her not to take it, not to shoot? She forced herself not to glance at where she knew he’d tucked it into his belt, just near his left-hand jeans pocket. If he didn’t want her to use the gun, he certainly didn’t want her to give away where it was.

“This is my daughter, Charlie,” he said, addressing the boy. The girl he ignored. “She’s thirteen months old. And I’m not using her as a human shield. So let me tell you what’s going to happen. I’m going to give her to her mother, we’re going to put her in the car, and then they’re going to drive away.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “I don’t think you’ve, like, really grasped the idea here?”

 _Oh, my God,_ Molly thought to herself. _She_ _’s practically a child._

A child who’d already killed three people.

“Oh, I think I’ve grasped the idea pretty well,” John said, smiling grimly. He put Charlie into Molly’s arms, then backed up a few paces. The boy looked confused for a second, unsure of which of them to aim at. “You two are in a bit of an awkward position,” John continued. “You didn’t think I’d be home in time when you sent that text, did you? And now you’re stuck with one more hostage than you wanted. So I’m giving you a chance to send two of them away. It’s not like they could give you any information about the night your father died, anyway. I didn’t even know Molly back then.”

“When he _died?_ _”_ the girl ground out. She reached out as if to take the crossbow off the boy, who petulantly yanked it away from her. “You mean, when you murdered him?”

“I really don’t think _you_ should be on about killing people-” John stopped himself and took a breath. “Send these two away and we’ll talk,” he said. “And that’s my final offer. The police have been called, and they’ll be here any minute. Make up your mind, before the tactical response unit shows up and decides to shoot both of you.”

“What if _I_ just shoot you both?” The boy hoisted the crossbow again, and out of the corner of her eye, Molly saw a movement from John that might have been a flinch. But was it something else…?

John now shook his head. “Bad idea,” he said. He pointed to the weapon, which the boy now lowered a little, as if it were too heavy for him. “If that’s what I think it is, you have to manually reload it. And while you’re busy doing that, either myself or my wife are going to kill you. Both of you.”

The boy seemed to waver for a second.

“Put it this way,” John said. “If you let my wife and child leave, I’ll let the police sort you out. If you don’t, you’ll be dealing with me. I really think your dad should’ve taken his chances with the police. So what are _you_ going to do? Get all this way to die for nothing?” He chuckled. “That isn’t very clever.”

Molly listened to her heart beating for a few seconds.

“One minute,” the boy said. “And I’m counting.”

“You’re counting. Marvellous. You passed primary school.” John, fumbling in his pocket for the keys, went over and unlocked the car door. “Come on, Molly,” he said.

Molly, with a glance at the boy still holding the crossbow, stepped forward. She wanted to grab John with both arms and draw him in; shove him in the car and drive away before anyone else had a chance to react.

But the last thing John needed was for her to lose her cool. As he reached across to make sure the safety harness of Charlie’s car seat was attached properly, she could see that his shirt was clinging to him, soaked with sweat. “Listen,” he whispered, so quietly that she had to read his lips to help her understand him. “Go to Sherlock. He knows.”

“No. I want to stay with you,” she said. “This is where I need to be. _Here_.”

“Where does Charlie need to be?” Charlie had crammed John's index and middle fingers into her mouth and was chewing on them furiously with all four of her front teeth. “And I think we’ve got a couple more kids who can’t go far without your help either, Lolly.”

This posed her. “I love you,” she said, and he reached out and squeezed her hand.

“Hey,” he said. “They’re not going to kill me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know something they don’t. I’ll see you soon, okay? Drive safely.”

It took four attempts for Molly to slot the keys into the ignition. As she coasted the car slowly away from the house, she glanced in the rear-vision mirror and saw John unfold his arms and wave to her.

 

* * *

 

 Two squad cars, lights flashing, were blocking off the road as Sherlock’s cab approached the corner. Scanning the scene, he saw Merivale and three officers crowded around a third car, a blue sedan. It was not so much “parked” as stopped in the middle of the street, as if it had broken down. Throwing a handful of banknotes at the driver, Sherlock flew out of the cab and over to the scene. A constable in uniform tried to stop him breaching the police tape barrier.

 “Sir, please step away-”

 “Let me through,” he said. “Now!”

 The constable, fingers still digging into Sherlock’s chest, began a recital that the street had been blocked off and evacuated due to an “incident” and not even residents were being allowed through. This might have turned ugly, had Merivale not heard Sherlock and rushed over to pull the police tape up for him. But Sherlock wasn’t paying much attention to Merivale. His gaze was now fixed on the car - the Watsons’ car. The driver’s door was open, and one of the PCs moved aside slightly and he glimpsed Molly still sitting in the driver’s seat, with Charlie in her lap. Another PC made a move as if to take Charlie out of her arms. Molly cried, “Stop it! She wants to stay with me!” and Charlie, alarmed, burst into tears. Sherlock charged over.

 “Sherlock,” Molly blurted out. She was clutching Charlie so tightly the little girl was squirming.

 “Did they hurt you?” Sherlock dropped on his knees beside her and gave her shoulder a little shake. “Molly - are you hurt?”

 “No… no, I’m fine. We’re fine. Sherlock, John practically told them about the gun. He said if they tried to shoot either one of us, the other… the…”

 “Wait, what?” Merivale interrupted, giving the PC who had tried to confiscate Charlie a little push as if to tell him to go away. “Molly, are you telling us John has a _gun_ in there?”

 Molly nodded. “It was hidden in his belt,” she said, “but if he told them-”

 “Then he obviously did it for a reason,” Sherlock finished for her, with a deprecating glance up at Merivale. “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t look like that,” he said to her. “John’s owned that gun for the better part of ten years. Licensed and registered.”

 “Are you sure about that?”

 “If you doubt my word, get my brother’s,” Sherlock said tersely. “Oh. Lestrade’s on his way - yes, surprise, we lied about that, moving on.”

 “Yeah, I know,” Merivale said. “He called me just before you arrived. One hell of a phone call, that was, from a guy who died this morning. He explained who the kids are, and what John has to do with all of this.”

 Sherlock, getting back to his feet, looked across the car roof at the Watson’s house. At a distance, and an awkward angle, it was hard to see anything. “And they’re in there. Both in there?”

 “Yes.”

 “And armed, I suppose.”

 “Molly says Edward Trent, or whoever he really is, has a small crossbow. She’s not sure if Caitlin’s armed or not. Let’s hope for John’s sake that she doesn’t find his gun.”

 “I knew her,” Sherlock growled to himself, bowing his forehead against the top of the car door for a second. “I _knew_ her. The very first thing I said when we went to interview her at the house: _I know you._ Of course, she was probably keeping an eye on the house that day at John’s, trying to work out if she’d found the right address.”

 There was something else that Sherlock suddenly remembered about the day she and John had seen Caitlin in the driveway of the Watson house. Caitlin had just stared while John had been reading her the riot act about her own personal safety. She never made any attempt to defend herself, or even apologise. In the end, she had just walked away, leaving John, furious, to sputter at Sherlock: _Who walks straight out behind a car like that without looking?_

Who, indeed? Someone who wants to create a scene. Somebody who wants to be remembered as the idiot who walked out behind a reversing car without looking, not remembered as the smiling child in a seven-year-old photograph, glimpsed once in a dark cab.

 Caitlin’s cover had been histrionics, double-dealing and making herself as conspicuous as possible. Edward’s had been to tow the line and fade into the wallpaper as best he could.

 Which of the two was the ringleader, he’d yet to decide. But his money was on Edward Trent.

He seemed about to say something else when he heard a car door slam and, looking across, saw Greg getting out of his car, parked a little further down the cross-street. There was a little murmur from the group of officers, who parted before him like the Red Sea. Nobody tried to stop him from ducking under the police tape. Merivale greeted him with a curt nod, though she waited a few seconds for him to put his hand on Molly’s shoulder in silent comfort before starting with business. “All quiet so far,” she said. “They’ve gone inside and shut the curtains, so we can’t see them moving around. It’s getting dark, though, so hopefully they’ll put the lights on and it’ll help track what’s going on. We’ve asked for thermal imaging cameras, but it’ll probably be a week before we can get them out here, and I’m hoping to get this resolved peacefully well before nightfall.”

“That’s… optimistic…” Lestrade glanced down at Molly and cleared his throat. “Have you called them?” he asked Merivale.

“Not yet. I need more information,” Merivale said, pulling out her mobile phone, though she seemed to be navigating the browser and not the keypad. “And the first bit I need is this. Did John actually kill Hope? No - I have to know. It’s important.”

Sherlock and Greg looked at each other.

“I was standing next to Hope when he was gunned down,” Sherlock said. “I saw nobody in the building opposite, neither before nor after the shooting.”

Merivale shook her head. “Don’t think I don’t know what guys tell each other when they’re best friends,” she said. “He never even _hinted_ to you that he was responsible for the shooting? Because I had a look at his blog on the way here, and it’s pretty incriminating.”

Sherlock heaved a sigh, rolled his eyes, and said, “At the time Jeff Hope was killed, John was a recently-returned war veteran with both a real and a psychosomatic injury and was in intensive therapy after being diagnosed with PTSD. His blog was suggested to him by his therapist, Ella Thompson, as a coping mechanism for returning to civilian life. He was socially isolated and in a bad financial situation, both factors when people consciously or unconsciously insert themselves into a situation they perceive as being exciting, dangerous or dramatic. He’s a romantic and a drama queen, with a very strong sense of social justice. Detective Inspector Merivale, I think you’re intelligent enough to draw your own conclusions from that.” He took the phone out of her hands and looked at it in silence, then handed it back. “You’ll notice,” he said, “John begins the narrative by telling his readership he’s recalling information I’d told him after, which I did.”

“But then later,” she countered, “he stops the ‘Sherlock said’ stuff and starts talking as if he was there.”

“Yes. Like I said, it’s common among war veterans and others with PTSD to imagine themselves into a situation, or imagine heightened involvement in a situation. Speak to his therapist. She’s easy to find, and all too willing to cooperate with a higher authority when it comes to compromising her patients’ privacy.”

“What happened to the investigation into Hope’s murder?” she asked Lestrade. “That was your case, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “It was scaled back after six months and then went to Cold Cases. We’ve had someone open it twice since, but there’s been no new information.”

“Was John looked at as a suspect?”

“Yeah, but no more than anyone else. There was no real reason to think he was responsible. Still isn’t.”

 “His blog - ”

 “June, some dodgy wording on the blog of a guy recovering from PTSD doesn’t constitute a reason to charge someone. You know that. We interviewed him the afternoon following the shooting. His account was that after he got to the college, he waited outside for us. We were there ten minutes later, and by that time, the cabbie was dead. John was outside, exactly like he said. His account checked out with the known facts, so I had no grounds to make John a serious suspect in the investigation. The end.”

“His firearm -”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Molly snapped, causing Charlie to squawk in alarm again. “I don’t care if John shot a serial killer or not. He’s in there with people who’ve killed three times! Get him out. Now!”

“Molly,” June said gently. “I’m one of about three people in London trained as a crisis negotiator. We _are_ getting him out. But it’s going to take time and information. I need to know everything possible about why these kids have taken John hostage in the first place, and make sure I don’t upset them any further or make them panic. Criminals who panic do stupid things. I’m working on it. We all are.”

Molly put her face in her hands. “I keep waiting,” she moaned. “I keep waiting to hear the gunshot…”

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell her that John wouldn’t shoot unless he had no other choice, and it was likely he had something better up his sleeve than gunning down two people who were barely out of childhood. Then he realised what she’d just said.

_Gunshot. Singular._

“Where’s Melissa?” he asked Greg.

“At home. Do you want her here?”

“No, I want her at home. Molly, take Charlie back to the Lestrade’s.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I left John because it was the only way to get Charlie out. I’m not leaving him to go to the other side of London! Someone _do something_ …”

“Oh, Molly, listen to me carefully.” Sherlock dropped back down beside her, taking her shaking hands in his. “Look at me and listen. I _am_ doing something. This is how I solve crimes. I _think._ If we’re going to get John out of there - and we will - you’re going to have to stop panicking and help me think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The companion piece to this is the one-shot "Good Shot", which is chapter 13 of Baker Street Interludes. You can find it on my list of fics.


	19. A Soldier's Debt

John knew that Edward now had the loaded crossbow aimed at his back, but he didn't fumble as he unlocked the front door. For a second, he contemplated the obvious next move in this drama - slamming the door and hoping he had faster reflexes than Caitlin. But something stopped him, and it wasn't just that this was the first opportunity he'd had to do something… life-threatening… since Borley Rectory had burned down more than three months before. He led them through the front passage and into the kitchen without even condescending to glance over his shoulder.

"Coffee?" he suggested, picking up the kettle to see if there was water in it. Immediately, he heard a heavy thud. He looked over at Edward, who had the crossbow hoisted at shoulder-level. John looked him over in silence for a few seconds, as the electric kettle started to seethe and roil.

 _That_ _'_ _s one hell of a head injury. Donovan really fought him off._ If John had been his treating doctor, he'd have admitted Edward to hospital. At least two broken teeth, probably concussion, and the wound running along his scalp needed half-a-dozen stitches. Once this was all over, he owed Detective Sally Donovan a drink.

The kettle reached boiling point and switched itself off with a _snap._

"Oh, I wouldn't do that, mate," John finally said. "You don't want to waste that one shot so early, do you? Anyway, what happened to the knife you attacked Donovan with?"

"Shut up." Edward turned to his sister. Caitlin had been standing at his side, clutching one elbow and saying nothing at all. "Caitlin," he barked at her. "Search him."

She dropped her arms and stared at him. "Why do you want me to do it?" she asked, but it came out not as a demand, but as a timid little plea. John silently noted it. This wasn't the same girl Merivale had interviewed that morning. That girl had been going out of her way to be as difficult as possible. _This_ one was trying to melt into the floor tiles. He thought back to the puddle of vomit Anderson had found at Thompson's crime scene. Despite what television said, it was rare for anyone, even a teenage girl, to throw up after seeing something shocking.

Edward was now looking at his sister like she'd just suggested he jump off a cliff. "Um, 'cause I don't want to go groping him? Gross!"

"Well, what makes you think _I_ want to-"

"Oh, for God's sake," John said. "Should I save everybody some time and effort and search myself?"

He heard a violent _crack_ and saw stars. After a second, sharp pain in his temple kicked in. So did a rivulet of blood, running down his neck and into his collar. It was a few dazed seconds before he realised Edward had hit him with the flat shaft of the crossbow.

"Jesus," he said, gingerly touching his temple and inspecting the blood on his fingers. "That was unnecessary-"

"Shut up!" Caitlin snapped. Then, after a barely perceptible pause, "Face the wall with your hands up!"

John did as he was told, planting both bloodstained palms against the wall. "Listen," he said, hoping that keeping a steady heart rate would help slow down the bleeding from his temple. "You've obviously got some idea in your head that I killed your father. We need to sit down and talk about what happened like rational people…"

Having nothing else to say, he fell silent. There was a long _zzzwiff_ noise before Caitlin grabbed his wrists and duct-taped them tightly together. He heard her breathing in short, sharp bursts, as if she had a head cold, and then felt her fingertips furtively searching around in his jeans pockets. In another second she'd located the Browning. Much as John imagined she must have handled the hessian sack containing David Prosser's stolen cobra, she drew it out clamped between three fingers. "Ed," she exclaimed. "He's got a gun!"

"Great," John muttered to himself. "Just what I needed."

From somewhere over his shoulder, a mobile phone started to ring.

* * *

"Come on," June Merivale muttered into her mobile phone. "Come _on_ , pick up…"

Most hostage situations played out in a set number of ways. No more than about half a dozen, generally. It was how crisis negotiators were trained - identify which brand of crazy your perpetrator is, and then try to follow the rules. People who took hostages _wanted_ something. More than anything, they had grievances, and they wanted to talk about them. What sort of a hostage-taker would just not answer the phone when it rang?

These little bastards, apparently. Lestrade's heart sank as he watched her listening down the line.

"You're sure you've got the right number?" he tried, just as she hung up. She rattled off the number, and after double-checking it matched the one listed in his mobile's address book, he nodded. "Have you tried Caitlin's mobile?"

"Tried both kids' mobiles, and John's. Not much else to do except hope they'll change their mind. Blowing up their phones with fifty million calls might make the kids more agitated." Merivale sighed. "If you could do me a favour," she said, "Could you send John's family to somewhere that's… not here? I really don't like the idea having the baby around this close to a crime scene." Then, with a slight smile, "though I'm impressed that it's humanised our crime-solving robot a bit."

After a short discussion on what to do next, both Molly and Sherlock were on their phones. Molly was still sitting in the driver's seat of the car, a blanket draped around her shoulders. She had a finger in her free ear and was talking to someone about post-mortem reports. What that had to do with anything, neither Merivale nor Lestrade were sure, but it was keeping her calm and focused, and that was enough. Sherlock, meanwhile, was pacing around with his own mobile. Probably talking to Mycroft, judging from his tone of voice, and the fact that this was definitely a swallow-your-pride-and-call-Mycroft scenario. He had Charlie perched on one hip, and jiggled her distractedly whenever she started to fuss.

"Sherlock's not a robot," Lestrade objected, a little offended. "Never has been. And he's slack at even pretending to be, sometimes."

"Any chance you're going to be able to convince Mum and Bub to go back to your place?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Not sure I'd want to try," he said. "Molly's as sharp as a tack, June. She could be helpful to us."

"Is the little one helping?"

"Yeah. She's helping to keep Molly and Sherlock sane. And anyway, I want her to be the first person John greets when he walks out of there, which he will-"

"Look sharp," Merivale said, glancing over Lestrade's shoulder. "The sharks have arrived."

A white network-television news van, high-beams on, had just curved into the cross-street. While it was still coming to a stop, the panel door slid open and a camera operator and sound technician bounced out. In the front passenger seat, a well-dressed woman unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door like a state dignitary. She started talking down the camera lens before her feet even hit the ground.

_Oh, for God_ _'_ _s sake._

Kitty Reilly was still in crime reporting, though she'd graduated from print to television, dyed her hair brown, and was signing off her reports as _Katherine_. Either a bid to be taken more seriously as a journalist, or she was desperately hoping people would forget her role in the apparent death of Sherlock Holmes. How she'd kept her career at all was a mystery, though Greg had a vague memory of her making a blubbery apology to the still-apparently-dead Sherlock Holmes on telly, once it'd been established that Sherlock was innocent and Richard Brook was a fake.

Still in journalism. Didn't that just say it all.

She was now regaling her listeners as to the known facts of the siege, including giving out John's full name. Lestrade suddenly thought of Harry. Hopefully, someone had already told her what was going on - she wasn't going to react well if she found out via news bulletin. "June," he muttered. "Keep an eye on Sherlock. Don't let him talk to the press."

"How am I supposed to stop him?"

"Punch him, if you have to." Lestrade left Merivale near the squad cars, making his way through the crowd to where Kitty stood, as close to the police barrier as possible.

"Detective Lestrade," Kitty said, in tones that implied they were old friends. "We're a little shocked to see you here. We had reports come through this morning that you'd died after a snakebite."

"I got better," he said.

"Would you…" Kitty fumbled slightly, unsure whether to take his response as a joke or not. "Would you like to make a statement about what we know about the suspects and their hostage?"

"Sure," Lestrade said, glancing straight up into the lens of the camera. "Oh, are we live?"

Kitty giggled, though he really hadn't said anything remotely amusing, and cast a coquettish glance back at her camera operator. "We are, yes."

"Oh, then in that case, my public statement is this: _Fuck off and let us do our jobs._ Lives are at stake, and you people come around like vultures, loving every second of it. Now move it, before I call in the riot squad."

For a second, Kitty's mouth gaped so wide that an Airbus could have used it as a hangar. Without even waiting for a response, Lestrade turned and walked back to where Merivale was pretending to give orders to a couple of constables in uniform.

"There goes your promotion," she said soberly, but her eyes betrayed her.

"I'm heartbroken," he said. "And I wasn't kidding about the riot squad, either. They have ten minutes to move, or I'll have them moved."

"I'll help you myself. And I'm going to have _Fuck off and let us do our jobs_ embroidered and framed for your office. You'd make a bloody terrible Liaison Officer."

"Oh, you've no idea." Lestrade stopped. "Oh, of course," he said. "I've been trying to think what Thompson had to do with all this. He was the first one killed, yeah? I'm pretty sure he was the Family Liaison Officer for the Hope murder. Good with kids. After all these years, he was probably the only detective Caitlin and Edward remembered. And one who'd let them into his home if they showed up there, out of the blue."

"Those little bastards."

Lestrade looked down at his shoes for a second. "So they won't talk to you," he said. "What next?"

"We've found the mother," Merivale said. "Karen Hope. Give her credit and everything, she called us first once she figured where the kids were. She's on her way, but she'll be at least an hour. Not sure where her husband is, but since he's not a suspect and the kids don't even like him, I don't think we absolutely need his company."

"How do they get on with their mum?"

"Who knows - if all this was thrown up by a divorce, they might blame her for leaving their dad in the first place."

Lestrade pulled a face. "Yeah," he said. "Been there, done that. Look, before she gets here, I want the press no closer than three streets that way." He pointed. "That one…" he gestured to Kitty, who seemed no longer to be on the air and was talking with one of her sound technicians. "She was at Moriarty's trial. Outside chance she and Karen will recognise each other, and that's the last thing we need."

* * *

Their birth names were obviously not _Edward_ or _Caitlin._ But they'd been using the ones issued to them by the Witness Protection program for so long that they used them now with each other, even though the game was so obviously over. And there was something else about them that John noted almost immediately: Like all siblings, they squabbled.

Since there was nothing else for him to do, kneeling on the floor with his hands bound behind him, John fell to surreptitiously noting the way that Caitlin and Edward interacted with one another. Just something Sherlock had casually thrown out to him an hour ago: one was dominant, the other submissive. And despite her being the one with the gun, it was becoming obvious that Caitlin wasn't the dominant one.

She didn't even seem all that interested in the Browning. She was far more interested in Edward's crossbow, which John sneaked glances at whenever he felt he safely could. A small thing, barely bigger than the gun. The bolt was blunt, but if the bow mechanism launched it with enough force, that didn't matter.

The cut across Edward's scalp was still bleeding. Not heavily, but the blood was fresh enough for him to be leaving reddish-brown fingerprints all over the kitchen counter and, when he opened it, the refrigerator door. He and Caitlin helped themselves to sandwiches - not bothering to offer any to their reluctant host - then retreated to the far end of the living-room for a whispered consultation.

They really hadn't factored in John being their hostage.

John had no doubt whatsoever that if he hadn't been home, they'd have killed Molly and probably Charlie, and then been on their way before anyone was the wiser. But they'd accidentally come face-to-face with him instead.

So why the hell was he still alive?

Not that he minded, of course.

The squabbling had started during the ten-minute period where the landline went off, followed by Caitlin's mobile, Edward's, then his own, and back to the landline again. After a long and acrimonious debate, nobody had answered any of those calls, and they seemed to have stopped for the time being. But by now, all was not well between brother and sister. They stood huddled together the end of the room, whispering furiously, their shadows looming on the far wall behind the sofa. Edward made an aggressive wave of his arm, pointing toward John. His other hand was on his sister's wrist. Caitlin shook her head and hissed something at him.

Edward punched her.

The blow slipped off her left jaw cleft and hit her in the neck. She choked and crumpled, tipping back against the sofa as Edward stormed past John and back to the kitchen. For a second, Caitlin, still holding her throat, met John's gaze.

"Ice," John said. "Put a cold compress on it - not for long."

With a look of contempt, Caitlin thunked both feet up onto the sofa instead. As she did, Toby, who had been taking refuge underneath it, scampered out in alarm. She leapt back to her feet and bounced after him. "Oh, kitty!" she rasped.

 _Kitty?_ Even Molly at her most silly didn't patronise the cat with anything worse than _puss._ Caitlin darted after Toby, cornering him behind one sofa and scooping him up into her arms.

John held his breath.

If he made any indication at all that he was fond of the cat, Edward was probably going to grab Toby by the scruff of the neck and smash his head on the kitchen counter.

Just to get back at him. Just to get back at Caitlin, who was ignoring Toby's squeaks of protest at being confined in her arms. Even though he was struggling, John could hear Toby purring from all the way across the room. _Ridiculous cat._ Purring in the arms of a three-time killer. Still loathed Mycroft Holmes, who had only ever treated him the way he treated most humans - with polite condescension. John had once thought Toby was rather a good judge of character. But either he was entering his dotage (neither Molly nor the RSPCA had any idea of his age), or he wasn't as bright as previously thought.

"What's _your_ name?" Caitlin crooned at him.

"Toby," John said. "And he bites."

Toby had never bitten anyone in his life, but now would be an excellent time for him to start. Not being able to think of any other way to distract Caitlin, John got to his feet.

"Oi." Edward had returned to his sandwich, though he didn't seem to be very interested in eating it. He picked up the breadknife sitting beside his plate.

"I need to go to the toilet," John said.

Edward looked at him suspiciously. "Why?"

John took a deep breath. "I'm a little nervous," he said, trying not to sound sarcastic. "And, um. If you're not going to untie my hands, you're going to have to help me, if you get the idea."

Edward looked horrified.

"You are NOT making me do that," Caitlin said, and John blinked. She was risking another beating for that, but Edward either didn't hear or didn't register her objections. He crossed the room to John.

"Where is it?" Edward demanded.

John blinked innocently. "Where's what?"

"The toilet."

"Upstairs," John lied. There was a more conveniently-located one in the utility room behind the kitchen, but it had a much smaller window, even though it seemed like a more obvious escape route. "First door on the left."

"Right. Cait," Edward said. "Forget the cat and get up. Bring the gun."

"We're all going, are we?" John muttered. "Scenic trip?"

"Shut your face. I don't want you shanking me with…" Edward stopped, visibly puzzling this one out.

"… A toothbrush?" John suggested meekly.

Actually, now he came to think of it, that one wasn't such a bad idea. Provided he was able to snap the toothbrush handle into a sharp edge…

What the hell was he thinking? He was a Sandhurst graduate, but he wasn't MacGyver. A makeshift shank might work if the kids were unarmed, but one of them had a loaded gun and the other one had a loaded crossbow. A toothbrush just wasn't going to cut it.

With a snarl, Edward pushed him ahead up the shadowy stairs. As they reached the door, Edward opened it, fumbled for the light switch and turned it on, inspecting the room.

John's spirits sank. The window was shut.

The glass was frosted, so there was no chance of making any kind of clear signal out of it, though he could see prisms of red and blue flashing lights that bounced off the mirror over the sink.

Edward turned John around and sawed the breadknife across the duct tape binding his wrists. His hands separated. "Hurry up," Edward said, giving him another shove. "You've got two minutes."

John shut the door behind him and took a deep breath. If the window had been _open_ … but it wasn't. It was also heavy, and clunked so loudly when it was opened and shut that he and Molly had each woken the other up in the nearby bedroom doing it. Edward and probably Caitlin were just on the other side of the door. As he fumbled with his jeans, he could hear Edward breathing heavily through his bruised, swollen lips. Even worse, (and much to the consternation of almost everyone who'd ever visited their house), there was no lock on the bathroom door. Anything that even remotely sounded like a window opening, and Edward would have that door open in half a second.

John zipped his fly up, flushed the toilet, and turned to wash his hands as slowly as possible. Then he wet a flannel and dabbed at the cut on his temple, cleaning the blood off his face and neck until he looked and felt a lot more human.

Tiny split, not even worth a stitch. But all the blood looked gruesome, and had probably helped Edward think he'd hit John a lot harder than he had. John's gaze fell to the hinges of the bathroom cabinet. Leaving the water running, and with a furtive glance over his shoulder, he eased it open and shuffled through the contents. Child-proof caps weren't the most silent of mechanisms…

"Hurry up," Edward said through the door.

"Coming." John put everything back into the cabinet and shut it as quietly as possible. Then he turned the tap off, leaving the bloodstained flannel on the counter.

Nothing for it - he was just going to have to wait for Sherlock to come up with a better idea. Fine. Good. Sherlock always had a plan.

And anyway, John told himself, even if the bathroom window had been wide open, there was no way he'd be able to climb down a sheer brick wall from the second storey without breaking his neck. On the off miracle that he did, Edward was going to kill Toby and probably Casper as well, and then Molly would probably file for divorce.

_Did you just decide to remain a hostage for the safety of the cat?_

Ridiculous, but there it was. John dried his hands, then folded the hand-towel and hung it back up. "Opening the door now," he said. "Don't shoot."


	20. The Instruments of Darkness

All was curiously still on the other side of the door. Receiving no answer to his warning, John edged it open to find Edward a few feet away, clinging to the landing railing. John knew that look immediately, and sprang forward. "Hey-"

Too late. Edward heaved, splashing vomit onto the stairs below. Caitlin, alarmed, took a step toward her brother, but Edward elbowed her out of the way and awkwardly turned himself around. He still held fast to the railing with both hands, white-knuckled. John tried to get a good look at Edward's eyes, but the overhead light was dim and Edward shut his eyes. "What are you looking at?" he demanded.

"Nothing," John said immediately, taking a step back. "How's your head?"

Before Edward could respond, Caitlin stepped forward, the roll of duct tape in one hand and the gun in the other. She hadn't time to ponder the logistics of rebinding John's wrists before her brother interjected again. "Not yet, stupid," he said. "How's he supposed to write with his hands together?"

_Write?_

Caitlin, levelling the gun in her right hand, fumbled for the pocket of her hoodie without taking her eyes off John. It was a few seconds before she was able to put the roll of duct tape away. "Downstairs," she ordered, bringing both hands back up to the gun. "Now. If you run, I shoot."

John didn't know whether Caitlin would really shoot someone in the back, but he wasn't willing to try her on it just then. He let her march him ahead of her down the stairs, doing his best to avoid the vomit on the carpet. "Your brother's got a concussion," he said to her over his shoulder as he reached the bottom. "He needs to be in hospital."

_And now, it'_ _s just possible that I do, too._

The ground seemed to shift from underneath him like a conveyer belt, and he grasped the balustrade to steady himself for a moment before continuing down the hall and into the kitchen. Caitlin pointed to one of the kitchen chairs, and he sat down on it with as much poise as possible. His head felt dangerously heavy, lolling a little under its own weight. But he was clearly in a better state than Edward, who staggered in after them, bloodstained fingers clutching at the wall as if it could hold him up.

This might have been John's moment, if Caitlin hadn't found and confiscated the gun. But she had. He looked down at his fingers, tapping them restlessly on the tablecloth. Perhaps it was for the best that he didn't have an opportunity to take out Edward right now. He knew he had ten fingers; the only problem was, he was counting no less than sixteen. He watched them for a few seconds; they seemed to be writhing like snakes. Then Edward shoved something under his right hand. Looking down, he saw that it was the back of an envelope. Edward put a ballpoint pen down on the table with a soft _plink._

"What's this?" John asked, shifting the envelope from his right hand to his left and reaching for the pen.

"I want it in writing," Edward said, "that you murdered our father."

John gave a bitter, brief little chuckle. "No," he said, and put the pen down.

"Do it." Edward lifted the crossbow in his shaking hand. "I won't miss from this close."

John looked Edward over in silence for a few seconds. He was a mess, but no, he probably wouldn't miss from point-blank range. With a light sigh, he lifted the pen and scrawled out:

_To whom it may concern,_

_I, Dr. John Watson, confess to the murder of Jeffrey Hope as being my actions and mine alone._

"I hope that'll do," he said, signing off with a vague approximation of his signature and pushing the piece of paper back across the table. He pulled his chair out and tipped his head forward, kneading his fingers into the back of his neck. "'Cause I really don't feel like writing a novel on it. I s'pose you're going to shoot me now anyway."

* * *

Sherlock shoved his phone in his pocket with his free hand and made his way through the crowd of officers to where Molly was still sitting in the driver's seat of the car. "Sharon sent over Hope's post-mortem report," she said, handing her phone to him. "I don't know if you can read it on such a small screen…"

"Yes," Sherlock muttered, peering down at it.

"I haven't had a chance to look at it properly yet, but did you know -"

"He had an aneurysm, yes. It was part of his motive, as well as his motivation. He had nothing to lose." After reading in silence for a minute or two, Sherlock set Charlie on her mother's knee and knelt down beside her, clearing his throat. "I spoke to Mycroft," he said.

"What did he say?"

Sherlock paused. "He offered to send snipers," he said.

"Snipers? No." Molly shook her head. "It's too dangerous. Merivale said… she said, if we keep the line of communication open…"

"Merivale's working on the assumption that the Trent children _intended_ to take John as a hostage," Sherlock said. "They didn't. They intended to get into the house, somehow - probably just by knocking on your door - kill you and Charlie, and leave before John even got home. Edward miscalculated. He sent a text to John gloating about it, probably assuming he was still at the hospital with Donovan. But he'd already left and was halfway home, which is how he was able to reach you first."

"And now they don't know what to do?"

"Precisely."

Molly shut her eyes. "But if they were going to kill me and Charlie," she said, "then why don't they just kill John?"

"I don't know," Sherlock muttered, glancing down at his shoes. "My guess is that either they're discussing whether they should take advantage of the situation and make up some demands, or they realise that if they kill him, they'll then have to kill themselves. Or face trial for murder."

"They'll have to do that anyway. They've already murdered three people."

"Yes, but this one will be an open and shut case. This is a gift, Molly. Now we just have to use it to our advantage."

* * *

Detective Inspector June Merivale was in a quandary. On the one hand, she knew that the standard response to this sort of incident was to bring in an armed tactical response team - one step below military-level snipers. On the other, she knew that bringing in officers in riot gear was possibly going to make things worse, both inside the house and out. There had been absolutely no response from the Trents, or their hostage, in half an hour. The afternoon was fading, but there seemed to be no lights on inside the house. No noise. No movement. No confirmation at all that John Watson was still alive in there. Two ambulances and two teams of paramedics had just arrived and parked, waiting to be needed.

"Right," she said to Lestrade, pulling her phone away from her ear. "I've had enough of calling the phones - pretty obvious that they're not going to answer."

Lestrade nodded, watching as Sherlock left Charlie with Molly and made his way over to them. "So what do we do now?"

"Now," she said reluctantly, "we get out the PA system and keep trying with that, I suppose. Let them know we're willing to listen to them-"

"They're not interested in talking," Sherlock interjected. "They didn't intend for this to happen. They have no demands. They don't know what they want."

Merivale glanced at Lestrade, who shrugged.

"So what do you suggest, then?" she asked Sherlock, trying to keep the ice out of her voice. "We can't just stand out here forever while they figure out what they want. And if they want to murder John..."

Sherlock took a breath. "Let me try," he said. "Let me try calling. My ID shows up on the landline and John's mobile. They may want to speak with me."

"Why?"

"Because Hope was trying to kill me when J- when he was shot," he said. "And because this is a lot less effort than setting up a PA system."

Merivale turned to Alan Peters, giving an order to have the PA system set up anyway, and asked for him to confirm that the tactical response unit were gathered in a nearby street that couldn't be seen from the second storey windows of the Watson's house. Peters nodded and went. After what seemed like a year, June turned back to Sherlock. "Sure," she said. "Try, by all means. If you think it'll help."

Sherlock pulled out his phone again - noting that it was now starting to run low on batteries. John had probably had his own phone confiscated, so he tried the landline first. As he listened to the purr of the dial tone, he watched Merivale pull out a cigarette and Lestrade light it for her, then light his own. Obviously the Metropolitan Police threw their no-smoking policy out the window when their senior detectives were under stress.

He hadn't expected anyone to pick up, but halfway through the fifth ring, there was a barely perceptible _click._ He pulled the phone away from his ear for a second to check the display. The line was open.

"Caitlin," he deduced. Girls were more programmed than boys toward social pleasantries like answering the phone, and he knew Edward was injured. "Sherlock Holmes. Let me speak to John."

Lestrade and Merivale looked at each other again. Then Merivale, still with her lit cigarette in hand, rushed over to the uniformed officers milling around the squad car parked across the street.

"Um, that's not how this works," Caitlin said.

"No, it isn't," Sherlock agreed, making eye contact with Lestrade for a second. "How this _usually_ works is that we deploy flares and burn the house down while you and your brother are standing in it. You will give me proof that John Watson is still alive, or that's exactly what will happen."

He listened to Caitlin breathing on the line. In. Out. In.

"One minute," he said. "Sixty seconds. Will you give me sixty seconds?"

Then came a series of shuffling sounds and low voices, neither of which belonged to John. After such a long pause that Sherlock was convinced that Caitlin had just put the phone down and walked away, it was picked up again. "Yeah, Sherlock," John said wearily into the receiver. "Still alive. I'm fine. Is Molly okay?"

"You're fine…?"

"Oh, for God's sake… um. I'm just… Does Mycroft know about this?"

Sherlock exhaled. 'Does Mycroft know about this?' was a confirmation that John was speaking on his own terms. The code for any coercion was denial that it was taking place.

But there was something else that was worrying him. John's breathing was heavy and irregular, and he slurred his words a little.

"You're not fine," he said. "Are you injured?"

"Whack on the head," John mumbled. "Room's spinning a bit, but it's not that bad. I…" He trailed off, and Sherlock heard Caitlin mutter something in the background of the call.

"I've got to go," John said. "Tell Molly I'm fine…"

"No, don't hang up," he said. "Put Caitlin back on."

There was more fumbling with the phone and low voices. He heard Caitlin's become sharp for a second or two, though he couldn't make her words out. "Yeah," she finally said into the receiver. "What do you want now?"

"To confess."

"… What?"

"You've got the wrong person. John didn't kill your father. I did."

"Um, yeah, that's cute of you, but too bad it's bullshit."

"I have a post-mortem report here - no, you listen to me, because whatever patience I ever had toward you has just run out. I have a post-mortem report here. It was conducted by a third party not associated with me, John, or Scotland Yard. In it, it outlines that your father was suffering from a cerebral aneurysm, which was diagnosed in May of 2007 with a CTA performed at the University hospital. Believed to have been caused by atherosclerosis. Because of its size and unusual location the risk of death during surgery was so high that your father elected to not have that treatment. It would have eventually killed him."

Caitlin paused. "Right," she said. "So you gave my father atherowhatever, then?"

"The report also reveals," Sherlock went on, "that your father died as a combined result of shock and trauma to the shoulder inflicted by a blunt object _after the shooting had taken place._ That blunt object was my shoe, Caitlin. I needed information from him, and I extracted it. It's possible that he would have survived the initial shooting if I'd provided First Aid quickly. I didn't."

After a long silence, Sherlock pulled the mobile away from his ear and looked at the display screen. Caitlin had hung up on him. With a growl of frustration, he shoved the phone into his pocket and turned to Lestrade, who had been smoking and watching the whole thing in silence.

"We've got to get in there, quickly," he said to him, fighting off the sudden, insane urge to confiscate his cigarette. "John mentioned something about being hit in the head. He's slurring and confused. Signs of a serious concussion that might kill him if it goes untreated."

Lestrade looked at him. "Oh, shit," he said. "Sherlock, we're already going as fast as we can…"

"And that's not quick enough," Sherlock said. "I've told Merivale she's analysing the situation incorrectly, and she won't listen to me. Will _you_ listen to me?"

After a barely perceptible pause, Lestrade nodded. "Okay," he said. "Okay. What do you need?"

"I need to get in there. Now."

* * *

Even in his light-headed state, John wasn't the least surprised when Caitlin sat down at the table opposite him and reached into her pocket. He'd seen at first glance that it was bulging. She brought out two amber-coloured bottles with white childproof caps. Generic bottles, the sort medical labs kept on hand for miscellaneous projects. He swallowed down a wave of violent nausea.

"I think," he said, "I know what you're about to suggest."

"It's not a suggestion," she said. "'Cause you don't have a choice, except if you'd prefer a bullet in your head, like the one you gave my father."

"I didn't hit him in the head," John muttered. "If I'd been aiming for his head, I wouldn't have missed… no." He shook his head, promptly regretting it as the room spun. He took a deep breath. "You've got something up your sleeve," he went on, articulating his words carefully. "A cheat or an antidote. This might've worked on Sherlock and it might've worked on some terrified hostages, but it's not going to work on me. Forget it."

Caitlin raised the gun.

"So this is how you were going to kill my wife, then?" John raised one eyebrow. "You were going to force her to take poison at gunpoint. Well, at crossbow-point, anyway. That's really brave - two of you against an unarmed woman."

"Same odds that my dad had," Edward said. John glanced over at where he was sitting on the sofa, still cradling his precious crossbow. It wouldn't be difficult to operate. He could probably still do it, even if he was a mess of concussion by this time.

John took a deep breath. _Concentrate. You need to concentrate._

"You were the one who killed Celeste, weren't you?" he said to Caitlin, completely ignoring her brother. "Dyer said it… said no way she'd accept a drink from a teenage boy. She wasn't that stupid. But she thought you were her friend… told you all about Matthew's book. It's how you found out about my blog. What a thing to do to your best friend…"

He stopped, suddenly remembering Dyer's claim that Caitlin had done a lot of blubbering about Celeste being her best friend. John hadn't been at the initial interview at the Trent's house, but was happy to place bets that Caitlin hadn't mentioned their being besties that day. And then, the incident with the snake. _Help her._ Caitlin was a pretty enough girl, in her own colourless, ironed sort of way. But at night, wearing no makeup, and with a hoodie covering her hair, she could easily pass for, say, a young man.

"'Help her'." He smiled to himself, then shut his eyes and tilted his head back slightly, wincing as a bolt of pain shot down his neck. "We all thought that might've been about Jones, but she was already dead… that was about Donovan. You could've been a bit more plain about it. 'Help Donovan 'cause my brother's about to kill her. Love, Caitlin Trent.' Would've been nice. Why try to save Donovan, though, of all people?"

Caitlin looked sulky.

"You liked Donovan?" he pressed, swallowing another wave of nausea. _Concentrate. Don't lose this._ "You weren't even there when Jones was killed, were you? You threw up when your brother roped you into helping kill Thompson, and after you killed Celeste, you wanted out-"

"Shut up and pick which pill you want."

"I don't want either of them," he muttered. He glanced over both bottles but, realising they were virtually identical, looked up at Caitlin instead. Reading her expression and body language would have been so much easier, had he not been seeing two of her. He glanced over at Edward again.

"There's something you mightn't know," he said to Caitlin, leaning forward across the table in an avuncular sort of way and lowering his voice so that Edward couldn't overhear. "After… after the night your Dad died, the police took both pills and tested them. They were both poisoned, Caitlin. It's right there in the report - I'm sure Merivale'd let you have a look at it. Your Dad had been working for Jim Moriarty. When people stopped being useful to him, Moriarty killed them." He looked at Edward again. "You ever wonder if your brother might be a bit like that? Was it his idea for you to play this game with me?"

Caitlin swallowed. "Five seconds," she said.

"Don't you think he should have offered to play the game with me himself, if it was his idea all along?"

"Four."

"Wait, hang on," John protested. "I don't think _any_ version of this game ever had a time limit like that-"

"Three…"

With a sigh, John swiped up the bottle in front of Caitlin, twisted the cap off, and tipped the capsule into the palm of his hand. Innocuous, ordinary looking thing, half clear, half blue, and the contents looked to the untrained eye to be nothing more sinister than grains of sugar.

"That's your choice?" Caitlin's wide-set, brown eyes gave nothing away, and John wondered for a second if she even knew which pill was which. He nodded, watching her as she tipped the other capsule into the palm of her hand.

"Count of three?" he suggested.

He half expected some attempt at sleight-of-hand at the last second. But as he worked the capsule down, he noted that Caitlin had some honour, at least - she'd also taken hers. He had no idea what her pill was like, but his seared the whole way down, and he was half-tempted to ask for water. Caitlin gagged and swallowed twice.

From the sofa, Edward chuckled softly.

"So," John said, splaying his hands on the table-top and ignoring Edward. "Out with it. Which one of us got the poisoned pill?"

Caitlin smiled. "You did."


	21. When the Battle's Lost and Won

The Watsons lived four houses away from the corner in a row of connected terraces. Sherlock and Lestrade were obliged to go all the way to the corner to avoid being seen by anyone looking out of the Watson's windows. Sherlock knew that John and Molly lived next to an elderly couple named Armfield on one side, on the other a fortyish man named Patwary, who, in weeks immediately before and after Charlie's birth, had held loud parties every Friday and Saturday night. But as for the residents of Number One, he was completely ignorant. There was no time to explore their house and make any deductions about them.

The houses backed onto a long, narrow strip of grass, barely wider than a footpath, that someone from the council with a sense of humour had labelled a 'nature reserve'. Since Kitty Reilly and her colleagues were still visible on the opposite cross-street, Sherlock and Lestrade hurried around the corner on foot and then up the street behind, until they sidled back around the side of Number One. They were now in full view of the police unit outside, but nobody looking out the window at the Watson's could have seen them approach that way, and neither could the press.

"Give you a hint," Lestrade said. "Go through the attic."

Sherlock blinked. "Sorry?"

"The houses along this row share attic space. If you can get into this flat or the one behind, get into their attic and then just go along until you reach John and Molly's. No walls or anything between them. Comes out at the end of their hallway, though, so be careful they don't see you coming down."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause I've been up there, that's why. I helped Molly move all the spare-room furniture into the attic when she cleaned it out for the nursery."

But Sherlock was no longer listening. Instead, he was looking up at the house they were standing in front of. The bottom level of this side of the house only had one window - that of the utility room toilet. It was far too small for an adult to get through, and it would be a dangerous waste of time trying. He looked up, shielding his eyes with one hand against the glare of the sunset. There was a second-storey window that he might be able to get into. In the Watson's virtually-identical house, it was Charlie's nursery window and locked up like Fort Knox. But having been evacuated in a hurry, the residents here had left this window slightly open to let in the summer afternoon breeze. "Help me up," he said.

Lestrade reluctantly got down on his knees in the damp earth under the window to give Sherlock a leg-up. "You sure you don't want me to come in with you?" he said, grunting a little as Sherlock used his interlaced hands as a step.

"No." Sherlock made it up onto the utility room windowsill and started searching with his fingers for the lower ledge of the window above it. "You'd slow me down. I'm faster and quieter on my own."

Lestrade nodded. "Okay," he said. "Good luck. Try not to do anything st-" He stopped himself. "Actually, do all the stupid things you like. Just get the pair of you out of there alive, that's all I ask. See you soon-"

_"_ _Dad!"_

Lestrade turned. As Sherlock reached the second-floor window, he looked down to see that Melissa's car had joined those parked at the corner. Matthew scrambled blindly across the street and ducked under the police tape without even slowing down. Lestrade, astonished out of his reserve, grabbed him in something between a bear hug and a rugby tackle, so hard that it nearly knocked both of them down onto the nature-strip grass.

But Lestrade's parenting was no longer Sherlock's concern. He'd already crossed the bedroom and was on the landing, hunting down a chair so that he could access the crawlspace above.

* * *

"Where have you _been_?" Lestrade clutched at Matthew's arm, as if he was three years old and likely to make a dash across the street if he wasn't held onto. "We've been worried to death-"

"They said you were dead, it was on the news!"

"Yeah, well, they were exaggerating. And you're grounded. I don't care _how_ old you are, you're grounded until you're thirty _…"_ Glancing over Matthew's shoulder, he could see Melissa get out of the car. But instead of crossing the road she stood against the driver's side door, only unfolding her arms for long enough to give him a dry little wave.

"I didn't know, Dad," Matthew was saying. "I didn't know it was Ed and Cait -"

"I know you didn't. Where have you - do you realise - oh, call your mother..." Lestrade pulled his phone out of his pocket and shoved it into Matthew's hands. "Call your mother, quick; tell her you're okay- you _are_ okay, right?"

Matthew nodded. Then he glanced reluctantly at the mobile phone he held, and swallowed. "Can't you call her for me?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Not a single chance in hell. You're the one who ran away, not me."

"She's going to kill me…"

"Yeah, probably she is, but she's been worried sick, Matty. Take your licks. You deserve them."

As Matthew called Julie, Merivale made her way back over. "Calm down," she said to Lestrade. "I'm not coming down on him, he's obviously not a suspect anymore. But he could maybe help us out in getting to know these kids a bit better. How did Sherlock go?"

"Got into the flat on the corner okay," Lestrade said. "As for how he'll go getting John out…" He shrugged.

* * *

Sherlock was in a cold sweat.

John and Molly's house was small, as they went, and although he'd sat listening for the best part of a minute, he didn't know for sure where the Trent kids were. Even if they were both downstairs and he could crawl out from the attic unseen, he had no guarantee they'd stay downstairs. Finally, he managed to clear a space large enough for him to climb down through it. He listened for another few seconds, then let himself down feet-first. He hit the carpet as lightly as possible and immediately ducked into the bedroom, taking temporary shelter behind the door so he could plan what to do next.

He could smell vomit.

After a quick listen revealed that both Caitlin and Edward were downstairs and their hostage was likely to be also, Sherlock ventured out from behind the door. Instantly, he saw the source of the smell, lashed all over the stair carpet. Before he could make too much of this, though, he heard something that chilled his blood: a choked groan from downstairs.

He moved around the landing to a spot where he had a direct view down into the front passage, the kitchen and part of the living room beyond it. By getting down flat, chest and chin brushing the carpet, he could just see that John was crouched on the living-room floor on his knees and elbows, palms resting on the back of his head. But in another second, the groan was repeated, and Sherlock realised it wasn't coming from John. He crawled further along the landing until he could see Edward, sprawled out on the floral-print sofa. There was blood from one end of it to the other. More was coming from his mouth and nose, and his heavy, gurgling breaths could be heard all over the house. Caitlin stood over him, shaking him.

"Ed…?" she ventured in a small voice. "Ed… are you awake…? Get _up_ _…"_

Edward slapped her away, or tried to. His blunt reflexes missed her arm by several seconds.

Caitlin turned to John. "Do something!" she screamed at him.

"He's concussed," John mumbled. "Needs a hospital…"

Sherlock was barely listening. Edward Trent's health was the least of his concerns, and he had just run a quick scan of the room, homing in immediately on the two bottles on the dining table, one upright, the other on its side. Both empty. Of the three people in the room, only Caitlin seemed relatively unscathed. And yet, John had said that Edward had a concussion, _not_ a case of poisoning…

"He can't go to a hospital," Caitlin snapped. " _You_ help him! You're a doctor…"

John chuckled; a grim, low sound that was muffled by the carpet he was still crouching on. "Should've maybe thought of that 'fore you poisoned me," he slurred.

Then he stopped.

He was looking out the glass doors that led to the courtyard and the small grassed area outside that Molly persisted in calling a garden. In a few seconds, though, Sherlock realised that John wasn't really looking outside. In the dimming afternoon, he could see a reflection of the staircase behind him. And he could also see Sherlock himself, not-so-stealthily concealed on the landing.

_For God_ _'_ _s sake, John, stop it!_

As if he'd heard, John turned his gaze back to Caitlin. But before he did, Sherlock thought he shook his head slightly.

Then he heaved vomit the colour of dishwater onto the carpet.

This seemed to pose Caitlin. She stood staring at her brother as if he were some sort of exhibit in a zoo; then she stepped over to where John crouched, still dry-heaving. She lifted the gun and levelled it at his forehead, just as he looked up at her.

"Oh," he said, still breathless from the last round of heaving. "For God's sake. Finally."

Quick as a whip, John grabbed at the barrel of the gun with his left hand, using the leverage to pull himself to his feet and turn Caitlin away from him. With his right hand, he grabbed at her free arm and locked it behind her back. She screamed in pain and dropped hard onto her knees, just as Sherlock reached the bottom of the stairs.

_Crick._

John flicked the safety catch off the Browning and shoved it flush against Caitlin's left temple.

"Doesn't work with the safety on, Caitlin," he said. His jacket had slipped down off one shoulder, and he shrugged it up again. "Sherlock, don't worry about Edward, he won't be getting up in a while. Grab the phone, will you? Tell Merivale she can let her lot in now, we've got one of them unconscious and the other one on the floor doing _exactly what I tell her._ _"_

But Sherlock barely registered the tail end of John's instructions. He stared at John in stark disbelief. "But… but you…"

"Oh, for God's sake." John rolled his eyes. "I'm not concussed, Sherlock, I was faking it. _Harry_ _'_ _s_ hit me harder than that."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, shut it, opened it again. "But," he finally protested. "You just took _poison!_ _"_

John swayed a little on his feet, lost his balance, staggered a step or two. "Yeah," he said. "Mmm. About that…"

* * *

John insisted on walking out of his own house under his own steam and did it, though not for long. No sooner had he been reunited with Molly and Charlie than he was made a reluctant inmate of one of the waiting ambulances, though he absolutely refused to let that ambulance actually go anywhere. After Lestrade had helped Merivale with the arrest of Caitlin Trent and seen her unconscious brother rushed off to the hospital, he left Matthew at the car with Melissa and wandered over to where John sat under the glare of greenish fluorescent lights. He was holding Charlie in one arm and having his blood pressure taken on the other. Molly sat beside him, and Sherlock was hovering, arms folded nervously, at his shoulder.

"What is it?" John asked the paramedic, almost before she'd loosened the pressure sleeve.

She gave a long-suffering smile. Less than twenty minutes with her patient had obviously frayed her nerves a little. "80 over 60," she said. "Which means-"

"Which means you need to take a second reading." John sighed and offered her his arm again. "Fine. I'm a lot better, though. It's come up, just in the last half an hour."

"Dizziness?"

"Better."

"Did you actually lose consciousness while you were in there?"

"Not that I remember. Doubt it."

"How's your nausea? Any more vomiting?"

John indicated the half-full cup sitting between him and Molly, just out of Charlie's reach. "I'm drinking this without a problem," he said. "I'm starving, though. And a decent meal will help me metabolise the medication. No offence, but I don't think hospital food is going to help with that."

"If you don't want to go to the hospital," she said, "we can't make you. But you'll be refusing against medical advice."

"For God's sake," Lestrade said. He reached out as if he was going to punch John playfully in the shoulder, then stopped himself at the last second. "Just stop being stubborn and go to the bloody hospital, you."

"Oh, Greg, _stop_." Molly made a face. "The more you tell him to go, the more determined he is not to. I've had to reverse-psychology him into taking the bins out all year."

John half-smiled at her. "You know me so well, Lolly," he said, reaching out to tweak a lock of her hair off her forehead.

 _"_ _Lolly?"_ Lestrade echoed, breaking into a grin.

"Shut up," John said.

"I don't understand," Sherlock broke in, in tones that implied he'd been cheated out of a perfectly reasonable murder by a random miracle. "You took a _cyanide pill._ How are you… not dead?"

John smiled wryly. "You really want to hear it?"

"What?" Sherlock looked the picture of innocence.

"You want to hear what happened? You're not going to make some smart-arse remark about how you'd have done it better and I'm just an idiot?"

_"_ _John."_

John nodded. "Okay," he said. "Well, you know, I was just doing whatever was going to keep me alive, Sherlock. They made me sign a confession for their father's murder. Wasn't worth the paper it was written on, so I did it to shut Edward up. And I figured two things out pretty quickly: Donovan hit Edward hard enough that he was bound to collapse sooner or later, and wherever Caitlin was in Witness Protection, it was somewhere she didn't learn to use a gun. She barely knew the trigger from the barrel. She held it… you remember when I first showed you how to use the gun?" He looked over at Molly, who flushed in embarrassment. "Caitlin held it the same way you did - on its side. Yeah, it looks cool, but completely useless if you're intending to shoot. So there was a big chance everything Caitlin knows about guns comes from movies, and there was no way she'd even know how to take the safety off."

"I thought you'd shown your hand when you were hinting around in front of them that you had a gun," Molly said. "But… you did that on purpose? You were trying to get Caitlin to search you, find the gun, and think you didn't want her to have it?"

"Yeah. All I could think was, if Caitlin changed her mind and picked up a knife instead, I might be in real trouble. So anyway, those two got up to all sorts with drowning people and walking them off castle walls and posing them in bathtubs. They thought they were smarter than everyone else - that's why they kept leaving those notes. Why Edward texted me. They weren't just going to just shoot me if they could help it, they wanted it to be _clever_. Except there was no chance they'd play the pill game fair. If I picked the harmless pill or told them I wasn't going to play, _then_ they might just shoot me."

"So-"

"So first I had to guess what poison they'd use. I remembered Greg saying that the poison in the original case was cyanide, and anyway, only a cyanide would drop you stone-dead in a minute or two."

"Or a tetrodotoxin," Sherlock said.

"Even a tetrodotoxin would probably take longer," Molly objected.

"Anyway," John said, before this could turn into a discussion on Advanced Toxicology. "I was pretty sure it was cyanide, all right? The one in front of her, not me. She looked at it, twice. And Greg, do you remember when we were at the hospital after the rectory burned down, they thought you might have had cyanide poisoning from the smoke inhalation? They gave you something strong to inhale and a couple of injections. Sodium Nitrite and Sodium Thiosulfate."

"Yeah," Lestrade said, though he sounded uncertain. "Yeah, I think I remember that. I felt worse after that than I did before."

"I thought those might come in handy and stocked up. When I figured it was only a matter of time before Caitlin wanted to play the pill game, I went into the bathroom and gave myself the antidote injections." He shut his eyes for a second. "You're right, Greg, you did feel worse after. They'll keep you alive, but they'll completely bottom out your blood pressure. Which, you know, I was pretending to have concussion so that helped it look real, but if I passed out-"

"They were unlikely to force you to take poison while unconscious," Sherlock said. "It might have bought you some time."

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

Sherlock mimed a zipping motion across his lips before John continued.

"I had to get the game moving after that, since the antidote wears off. I knew you were on your way, Sherlock. Edward was getting worse - he had about as much chance of using that crossbow as he had of driving a car in that state. Once I could get Caitlin to believe I was as good as dead, get her to bring the gun close enough, I could disarm her."

"Which you did."

"Which I did." John shifted Charlie on his knee. "And I threw up most of the bloody capsule anyway, but I didn't really plan that."

Molly took a deep breath and looked up at Sherlock, her dark eyes shining. "See," she said. "I _told_ you he was clever!"

"Yes," Sherlock said, sniffing. "Yes, I suppose that was… clever of you, John. Though I can't fairly describe refusing to go to hospital as intelligent."

"I don't need hospital treatment," John groaned. "I need a good night's sleep, in a decent bed." He looked over his shoulder at the house. "And that's a crime scene," he said, "especially if Edward doesn't make it. I don't think the police are going to let us back in there for a while."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I know somewhere you can stay," he said.


	22. Exeunt

Detectives Greg Lestrade and June Merivale stood watching their teenage suspect through the viewing-room glass. Caitlin was seated at the bolted-down table with Pam Greer on one side and her mother, Karen, on the other. The two older women seemed to be exchanging meaningless pleasantries, but Caitlin was staring at the far wall. Every now and again the fingers of her left hand crept to the soft joints of her right shoulder, but aside from the occasional blink and the soft rise and fall of her chest, that was all.

"Is she injured?" Lestrade asked. It wouldn't be the first time John Watson had laid into a suspect, but at least in this case he had a more than adequate excuse. But June shook her head.

"The medical officer says she's okay - pulled a muscle, if that. Still, she's got me wondering about her mental state, and I'm certain Pam's going to bring it up. She looks like she's away with the fairies. I doubt she'll say much."

"I doubt it, too." Lestrade folded his arms, awkwardly shifting his weight to his heels. It had been one hell of a long day. "Which suits me fine, if I'm honest. We've got enough evidence without her talking, and if she does talk, I don't want any blowback from her defence team about us bullying anything out of her."

"About _me_ bullying anything out of her," Merivale corrected him. "I'm just waiting on Draper now. You're forgetting the bit where she dumped a live snake in your car, Greg. That and her taking out half your team, you know. No way in hell would it pass in court if your name came up as one of the interviewing officers."

Karen Trent, formerly Karen Hope, got up stiffly from the chair beside her daughter and muttered something inaudible to her. Caitlin made no response. Karen paused for a few seconds longer, then made her way out to where the two senior detectives were standing. "Sorry," she said, wiping her careworn eyes with the back of her hand. "Is there anywhere I could get a cup of coffee before we start…?"

"Absolutely - it's all right, I'll go and get it for you," Merivale said. "Any sugar?"

Karen shook her head, and Merivale, with a glance at Lestrade, clipped her way down the corridor toward the front desk and the kitchenette behind it.

"How's your son?" Lestrade asked Karen, once the sound of Merivale's footsteps had died away.

"No change," she said drearily. "How's yours?"

Lestrade looked over his shoulder to where Matthew was sitting huddled in one of the plastic chairs against the wall, knees up, playing with his phone. After the embarrassing display of affection at the Watson's house, both he and Melissa had been careful to keep their distance. Melissa sat three chairs down from Matthew, pretending to be absorbed in the state of her fingernails.

"About the same," he said.

"I'm so sorry. I know it doesn't even begin to make up for what happened, but I've managed to leave eight dead people in my wake, and -"

"You didn't do any of that," he told her. "Your husband started it. Your kids finished it."

Karen glanced up at the overhead air conditioning vent. "You know why he did it, don't you?" she said. "Why Jeff killed all those people. I left him."

Lestrade snorted. "I'm sure he wasn't a fine, upstanding citizen before you left him," he said, "or you wouldn't have done it."

She made a non-commital sort of murmur, and they watched in silence as Pam tried to get Caitlin's attention. The girl wasn't catatonic - even Greg Lestrade, with no medical background, knew those signs - but Merivale's instincts had probably been right. He wasn't going to miss much by not sitting in on that interview.

"When I first joined the force," he said carefully, keeping his eyes on Caitlin, "straight out of school, before I was a detective. My first post was in Bristol. Every single weekend we'd be out at someone's house, one of them, usually the wife, with a black eye. And every weekend we'd hear the same thing, and it used to drive us crazy: _But I love him."_

"Oh," she exclaimed, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her lift her hand to her face. "Oh, you've got the wrong idea about that - I mean, no, Jeff never hit me, no." She sniffled. "But he was… he got mean. I don't know if it was his health… they said the aneurysm, where it was sitting on his brain, it could have drastically changed his personality. He got it into his head that he was a genius, and I was just a medical secretary who was beneath him."

"I doubt that's true."

She shrugged. "He wasn't very well educated - barely got his GCSEs. But he read a lot, and he liked libraries. I'm not much of a reader. First he'd start asking me things like 'What's the capital of Guam?' or 'What's the periodic symbol for antimony?' and making fun of me because of course, I didn't know. But then he started… oh, I don't know..." He saw another movement, as if she'd raised her hands to her face again. "This is going to sound crazy... for a long time I thought I was actually going crazy. He started doing things, just little petty things, like confiscating my keys when I needed to go to work. He'd tell me if I was smarter, I'd know how he thought, and I could work out where he'd put them. I'd beg him to just tell me… and eventually I got fired for being late too many times. It was so stupid, nobody would have believed me. He'd get angry if I hadn't memorised the groceries I'd bought and how much I'd paid for each item. I stayed with him for so long… it.. it seemed so cruel to leave him when he was sick. And besides, I thought he'd have to hit me to be abusive."

Lestrade nodded. "I believe you," he said. "It _also_ drives us crazy when we know someone's doing a number on his wife like that, and we can't touch the bastard until he actually touches her."

"The kids didn't understand. They didn't see a lot of it… Jeff didn't play games with them like he did with me. I think Edward actually hates me for what I did."

 _Edward._ Karen wasn't using her children's birth names, which Lestrade had only just learned were James and Megan. He opened his mouth to tell her how sure he was that Edward-James didn't actually hate his mother, then stopped. The kid was probably a genuine psychopath who really did hate her, and in any case, it didn't seem like there was any love lost on her side of things either. "You've got another son, though?" he ventured.

Karen nodded. "William," she said. "He's Robert's, not Jeff's. He's with his father."

"Well, he hasn't done anything wrong, has he? You've still got him."

She nodded again and glanced over his shoulder. Merivale was on her way back, juggling three coffees - Lestrade assumed the third was for Pam, since Merivale made a point of not making coffee for suspects she was really pissed off with. She gingerly handed Karen one of the hot Styrofoam cups. "Okay," she said. "Are you ready to do this?"

"No."

Merivale smiled wearily. "Neither am I," she said. "But I think we have to. Any time you want a break, to get a cup of coffee or go for a walk, just speak up, okay? We're not in a rush, but this really does need to be done tonight."

They went into the interview room together, and after listening through the intercom system to the boring preliminaries and the first three of Caitlin's _I choose not to answer that question_ s, Lestrade went back to where Matthew was still playing with his phone. He glanced at Melissa, who got up and moved away, muttering something about desperately needing chocolate.

"Good game?" he finally asked.

Matthew shrugged, but he took the hint and turned the game off.

"Listen, um," Greg said. "You know I'm not angry at you about the… video you made, right? Of Celeste. Calm down, I didn't watch it. But I got the idea."

"Okay." Matthew reached down and tweaked at a piece of rubber that was hanging off the sole of his trainers.

"You and Celeste," he continued. "I didn't realise you were… that involved with her. In that way." He cleared his throat. "That day… I mean, when you were with Celeste at the castle, before it all went to shit. Was it good?"

Matthew squinted at him in confusion. "Dad," he said, "are you asking me if having sex with Celeste was good?"

"… Yeah, I guess I am."

"Yeah, I guess it was."

"Right. Well, hold onto that, Matty. For a while you two had something between you, and it was good. I'm just sorry it ended like it did, but that wasn't your fault."

"If I'd just realised who it was earlier," Matthew said. "Celeste knew…"

"I think Celeste definitely started to suspect, once she read your book and started to connect the dots with Edward and Caitlin. That's why they… needed to do what they did."

"Needed?"

"Okay, poor choice of words. My point is, how were _you_ to know? You're not Sherlock Holmes. You'd never met them before, or their dad. They could have been anybody."

"Yeah," Matthew said, wincing. "But Dad, if I'd known. If I hadn't run away… if I'd been around for you to ask me… maybe I'd have known quicker. Maybe people wouldn't have died."

Lestrade pondered this. "Maybe," he conceded. "But you start thinking 'if I'd only done something differently, this wouldn't have happened' and you'll send yourself around the bend, kid. I mean, technically speaking if I hadn't cheated on Tilly Warmund at her brother's twenty-first, you wouldn't have been born. Good thing for you. Not such a good thing for Tilly."

Matthew gave him a horrified look. "Can we not talk about your sex life?" he asked in a little voice.

"I'm _completely_ fine with not talking about my sex life."

Matthew looked up at the same air vent that had seemed to fascinate Karen Trent, though Lestrade couldn't see what the appeal was. "Mum's not here yet," he said. "She said she was coming…"

"She'll be along. She's probably still waking up."

"It's nine o'clock."

"Yeah, but she's been on medication. Mark says she's been in bed most of the last couple of days." He paused. "Do you… like… Mark?"

Matthew shrugged. "He's okay," he said. "I don't really think anything about him. It's hard to think anything about Mark. He's boring."

"But he's okay?"

"Dad, he's okay and he's okay _because he's boring."_

"Okay, fine, jeez." Before Greg could roll his eyes, he heard a sharp cry in the direction of the front lobby and looked up. Julie had arrived - and she was trailed by his mother and both his sisters. With another pained glance at Matthew, he got to his feet. It looked as if both of them had some explaining to do.

* * *

Charlie had both arms flung above her head and had managed to wriggle her way to the very edge of the mattress of Sherlock's bed. John shifted her closer to Molly without waking either of them, then crept out and shut the door softly behind him. He went out to the living room, just as Sherlock, carrying Casper in a carry-crate, reached the landing. "Asleep," he said quietly.

Sherlock set the carry-crate down on the floor and a heavy plastic shopping bag on the kitchen table. Toby had already been brought up the stairs and made himself at home on the arm of the old patched armchair, but Smudge, who had been on the landing, began sniffing at the crate mesh. Sherlock opened the crate and Casper tore out of it like a bat out of hell, Smudge in close pursuit. He watched them zoom out the living-room door in some bewilderment.

"Did I just lose your cat?"

"Doubt it. The front door's shut, right? He'll be back when he wants to be fed." John took a breath and dropped wearily into the armchair, glancing over his shoulder toward the bedroom doorway and then reaching out to scritch Toby's furry head. "Well, that was… quite a day."

Without replying, Sherlock got up and went into the kitchen, putting the kettle on. He had made John Watson exactly three cups of tea in his life before. It was only when he'd brought the fourth to him that he realised neither of them had spoken in nearly five minutes. He frowned. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"… Yeah," John said vaguely, taking the hot cup from him. "Yeah, fine. Just a bit… awake, that's all."

Sherlock sank down into his own chair. "Oh, don't pretend you weren't enjoying that," he said. "Playing the hero, saving the day, defeating the villains."

"I _was_ enjoying it, a bit," John admitted, trying to smother a grin and not succeeding. "After Molly and Charlie left, anyway. Tell you what, though, nothing takes ten years off your life like seeing a crossbow aimed at your kid."

"I can imagine."

"No, you can't."

Sherlock considered this for a moment. "No, you're right, I can't," he agreed.

"I'm just glad she had no idea what was going on…" John paused. From the bedroom down the hall they both heard a light little murmur. Obviously Molly and her lifelong habit of talking in her sleep, but John motioned for Sherlock to be quiet while he listened. Finally he released a breath. "Thanks for letting us stay here, anyway," he went on. "We'll only be a couple of nights. Three at most."

"Well, there's no rush," Sherlock said. "To be perfectly honest with you, I've often wondered if Mrs Hudson's judgment was lacking when she left the flats to me and not you. After all, I'm going to inherit both Linwood and the Chelsea Harbour penthouse, provided Mycroft doesn't do something inconvenient, like outlive me." He paused. "Of course, Charlie will inherit after me anyhow, provided I live long enough for her to reach her age of majority. Though now I suppose new arrangements will have to be made, to accommodate..."

"… Oh." John looked pensive. "Listen, Sherlock," he said. "We, um. We're not exactly thrilled about the idea of twins, put it that way."

"Yes, I observed as much."

John looked surprised. "Really?" he said. "What did you observe this time?"

Sherlock hesitated, as if aware, for once, that he was wading into potentially dangerous waters. "When you first showed me that ultrasound scan, I said these words exactly: _What the hell is that?_ And you said: _That's exactly what I said._ You didn't sound as if you were joking. And _what the hell is that_ is an odd thing for an expectant father to say on realising his wife is having twins."

John's face twitched. "Yeah, that wasn't my finest moment - it was a bit of a shock. We didn't want three kids. We did a lot of talking before deciding we were going to have _one_ more."

"Enlighten me," Sherlock said innocently. "Is it medically possible to conceive twins on purpose, outside of a test tube?"

John shrugged. "Point," he said. "I know, it's an awful thing to say. We'll probably be thrilled in six months, but in the meantime… lots of changes. I'll have to go back to work, at least part time. Molly's taking a year off, if she can stand it. You remember what happened last time."

"Yes."

"New house. New car - ours won't fit three car seats. With the money from the sale of Dad's place, the resale of our place and the money from Mrs Hudson's will, we won't exactly be in rags, but it'll be tight for a few years." He paused. "Bit - scared, actually."

Sherlock stared at him. "You're a war veteran," he said. "Used to being captured at gunpoint. You just swallowed poison without even flinching. And you're _scared_ of having three children?"

"Sherlock, no offence, but I'm not sure you're the right person to be having this conversation with me. And don't you dare send Greg to do it, either. He's got enough going on right now."

Sherlock continued to look innocent, as if he'd never recruited Greg Lestrade to do any of his emotional heavy lifting before. "Anyhow," he said. "Given that neither of you seem keen on returning to a crime scene, I think the most logical thing to do would be to put the house on the market immediately and stay here until you find another. Move in whatever furniture you want to keep - both the other flats are empty. You won't be inconveniencing me. I'm hardly ever here, and I'm going to be away for the next few days."

"Oh?"

"I've had a case proposition from Berlin, and I'm flying out tomorrow night."

"Berlin," John mused. "Is that where-"

"Yes."

"Are you -"

"No."

"Ah. Okay."

After a long pause, Sherlock rattled off, "Ordinary case, really. Not worth your time. The CEO of the DZ Bank suspects one of his employees is embezzling company funds, but wants some sort of confirmation before firing people and laying charges."

"So you _did_ get the case from Christabel."

"… Sorry?"

"Well, she works there in Human Resources, doesn't she? Bit hard to believe you'd get a case from the CEO and your sister-"

"Half-sister-"

"Half-sister, then. Her boss just happened to contact you behind her back, did he?"

"… Shut up."

John did shut up, sipping at his tea for a couple of minutes while Sherlock pulled out the phone that had saved both of them from many an awkward conversation. When Sherlock didn't start up on another subject, he got up. "Well," he said, draining the last of his tea. "I'm going to turn in. If you're taking on another case, I suppose you need a decent night's sleep too. Which won't be easy, on that mattress. Best of luck."

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock threw his phone restlessly aside and glanced at the Stradivarius, visibly flinching as he apparently realised he couldn't play it all night with a house full of guests. "I'm hardly going to make you sleep up there while I get into bed with your wife. You've always been generous to a fault, but there's such a thing as being too generous."

"It's not as fun as it sounds, when you're in bed with Charlie as well," John said. "She's not toilet trained. We might have to buy you a new mattress."

Sherlock pulled a face, but nobly made no protest. John scratched the back of his head and looked around, as if he'd lost something. "Don't - don't abandon me, Sherlock," he finally said, without looking at him. "Just 'cause… you know."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I don't think you have to worry about that," he said. "I'm sure it's perfectly possible for you to have a career as a detective while raising a family. In fact, in your case, I suspect it's necessary."

They were both silent.

"Is this the bit where we hug, or something?" Sherlock eventually asked.

John appeared to give this some serious thought. "Um. Let's just go with a handshake, yeah?"

Sherlock got up and obliged - offering, by way of a bonus, an awkward slap to John's shoulder at the last second. "Sleep, er, well," he said. "You know where everything is. And stay out of the top two drawers in the wardrobe."

"I don't even want to know." John sighed. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight. Oh, and John-"

"Hmm?" John paused in the kitchen doorway.

"Don't have sex in my bed."

John had to come up with a spur-of-the-moment excuse when, the following morning, Molly asked, "I heard you and Sherlock laughing just before you came to bed. What was that all about? Some man-thing I wouldn't understand, I suppose!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading/following/faving/reviewing. :) 
> 
> No immediate plans for yet another sequel - I'm debating whether to continue this series (plenty of material, but a narrowing audience) or instead write a canon-compliant prequel/series 1-2 Lestrade spin-off. I assume he does sometimes solve his own cases, the ones Sherlock is too bored to be bothered with ;) Let me know if you have any thoughts! Thanks xx


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